Full and New
by FFcrazy15
Summary: Fall 1998: Between his curse, a new family, and a castle full of war-scarred students in need of guidance, newly-reinstated Professor Lupin has enough on his plate– and that's before an old foe rears his ugly maw. Myth and Magic mix in this tale of wizards and wolves, making one lesson very apparent: whatever you do, keep clear of the moonlight. Post-war AU; RLNT, HPGW, RWHG, DMLB.
1. Chapter 1: An Interesting Proposition

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here.

SUMMARY: "…Yes, this was all he needed: himself, his wife, and his newborn child- and a career to start, and a future to plan, and a life to begin. Begun a bit late, perhaps, but a life both full and new." The Lupins' lives following the war: careers, prejudices, full moons, and a child all serve to complicate a marriage, but then, they were complicated people. (A bit AU, obviously) R&R!

 **Explanation of the T rating: cursing, some violence, mental and emotional distress, very brief allusions to married adult activity. Nothing sexually or violently explicit/graphic will be described. Any warnings will be posted in bold at the head of each chapter.**

* * *

"We need a defense instructor, Remus. You loved teaching, and you're quite skilled at it. Why not give it another try?"

Lupin sighed; this was not the conversation he'd wanted to have when he'd invited Minerva McGonagall over for afternoon tea. Though only a week had passed since the battle, the new headmistress was not one to let things wait a moment longer than they had to. "Professor, we've been through this before. Teaching at Hogwarts is not a viable option for me; it never was. Last time was a mistake- one I don't intend to repeat."

"Do you want me to beg? I don't particularly like begging, you know." Minerva took a prim sip of her chamomile. "I'd rather you just agree now and save us both time."

"I don't want you to beg. I want you to enjoy your tea and tell me about the reconstruction."

"Reconstruction of a building is nothing; the heart of a school lies in the education being taught. What good is a castle without staff?"

He was beginning to get a headache. "Surely there are others willing to take the job."

"Hm. Not many, actually; most believe that the position is still cursed, even with Tom dead." (She, as well as many other former members of the Order, had taken to calling the dark lord by his birth name. When questioned as to why, Minerva always simply replied, _"He was a man, and nothing more. As for myself, I think it's only right that someone mourn him properly, no matter how horrid a person he was.")_ "And even with all that aside, Remus," she continued, "you're the most qualified applicant for the job, having taught at Hogwarts before, not to mention the best Defense teacher we've had in at least seven years."

"Ah, so I've beaten out a ministry crone, a fool, a death eater, a double agent, and a nervous wreck with Tom Riddle himself attached to the back of his head. Yes, I've certainly met some very high standards," Lupin replied ironically.

"Come now, Severus wasn't horrible."

"Professor. The school has just suffered a gruesome battle; you're already going to have a hard enough time recruiting students _without_ the stigma of having a werewolf on staff. I appreciate the offer, really, I do. And it was very kind of you to think of me- especially with Dora and the little one. But I won't take a job as important as this out of pity."

"Blast that Gryffindor pride of yours," McGonagall huffed. "Whoever said the offer was out of pity?"

He chuckled a little at that. "Again, you're very kind. But I'll manage, Professor, I always do."

"On your own, perhaps, but now you have a family to support."

"I've got enough saved to provide for us until Dora gets off maternity; we'll survive."

"Survive? Is that really all you want for your family?"

"Of course not, but Dora will be back at work in a few months-"

"Working part-time so she can take care of Edward while you look for odd jobs!" The headmistress was incensed. "Remus, this isn't just a year-long contract; you could have a career, a way to provide for your family! Isn't that what you told me you wanted during your OWL interviews?"

"That was years ago, Professor; I know better now-"

"Rubbish. I've seen you work; you're a brilliant man and a superb teacher, and I'm simply not going take no for an answer."

The force of her tone startled him so much that he fell quiet. McGonagall took another sip of her tea and said bluntly, "We need you, Remus. The school needs a Defense teacher who knows what he's doing, especially in the current climate." She was serious. He could see it in her eyes.

He struggled for a moment. "The students would be in danger."

"Professor Slughorn is perfectly capable of concocting a working Wolfsbane potion."

"That didn't exactly work out last time."

"The circumstances of _last time_ were abnormal and unpredictable. I highly doubt anything of the sort is capable of happening again."

For a long moment he was silent. Then he met her eyes.

"No rational parent," he said quietly, "would send their child to a school where Defense Against the Dark Arts was being taught by a dark creature."

"You are not a dark creature," Minerva replied firmly. "You are a man with a disease. And any parent who refused to send their child to Hogwarts for such a ridiculous reason will have deprived their son or daughter of a _wonderful_ Defense education.

"Remember that when your incoming class sizes start shrinking."

"Does that mean you'll take the job?"

He sighed. "Professor-"

"Remus. At least consider it."

He hesitated, and then said (with not a little irritation), "I'll talk to Dora about it. But I'm not making any promises!"

"Very good," she said pleasantly, setting her empty teacup down on the saucer and standing from her chair. "I expected your acceptance letter by no later than 15th July. Have a good day, Remus." She turned and opened the front door.

"Wait- Professor-!"

 _Crack!_

He sighed again. That woman and her stubborn habits. Remus stood up and went to close the door. As he did so, he allowed himself a brief moment of consideration. _Teaching again… the only job I ever really wanted to do…_

He shook his head. It was dangerous. _He_ was dangerous. For all of McGonagall's promises, he wondered if he had any real _right,_ to be so near to so many people. What if the Wolfsbane suddenly stopped working? What if he took it too late, or too early? Granted, these fears had never been realized before, but they still worried him, niggling doubts in the back of his mind that he forced himself to ignore on a daily basis.

The fireplace behind him suddenly burst into emerald flame, distracting him from his thoughts, and a moment later, a woman in Ministry uniform with shockingly pink hair stepped across the hearth. Remus couldn't help but grin. "You're home early," he said, walking over.

"Home late, actually," Nymphadora sighed. "I'm sorry I didn't make it back last night; duty called."

"Well, at least you're back now; you've got all weekend to sleep."

"Unless Kingsley calls me back in," she grimaced. "But I prefer not to think about that possibility. How's Teddy?"

"Fine; he's sleeping now. McGonagall was happy to see him."

"That's right; I forgot she was coming. How was tea?"

"Mostly pleasant. You just missed her."

"Bugger." She frowned suddenly. "Wait. 'Mostly?'"

He hesitated. _Blast that natural honesty._ It had nearly gotten him killed a number of times before, but even that seemed less worthy to be dreaded than Nymphadora's expectant look. Remus sighed. "She had a… proposition… for me."

"Don't tell me she asked you to marry her."

He choked. Dora grinned. _"No,_ she did not. She offered me a position."

"A position?" Her eyebrows rose. "You mean at the school?" He nodded. "Remus, that's wonderful! When do you start?"

"Well, I- I haven't exactly accepted, yet."

"What? Why not?"

"I wanted to talk it over with you first-"

"-And you're scared," she finished, voice falling flat. "Remus, we've _talked_ about this…"

"I know," he sighed guiltily, sitting down at the table again. "I know, Dora, I just- it worries me, don't you see? The thought of being near so many people, for so long… it's dangerous, far too dangerous. I just… I don't feel _right_ about taking it."

"Remus Lupin, you listen to me," Dora said firmly, sitting down opposite him. "You are not wicked. You are _not evil._ And you're only dangerous _once_ a month _if_ you forget to take your potion, which you _never_ do! You've gone through ten transformations with me nearby, and I've never been hurt; soon it'll happen while Teddy's here, too!" He flinched at that reminder; the full moon- Teddy's first since his birth- was only two days away, and they had yet to know whether the month-old infant, now free from his mother's womb, had inherited his father's lycanthropy. "You have to stop worrying that things will go wrong," his wife finished.

"And what would Mad Eye have said to that? Where's your _constant vigilance,_ Dora?" He managed a small smile as he said it, but it was clear he was still worried.

Nymphadora chuckled. "Right, right. And that's why we're _going_ to be vigilant. Every month, every year, for the rest of your life, we'll be careful! And so long as we're careful, _nothing is going to happen._ Okay?"

He hesitated, but couldn't help but grin, just slightly. "Alright. Okay, Dora, you win. I'll write McGonagall this afternoon."

"Good. Now-" she stood up, "I know you won't be feeling well tomorrow, so tonight I'm making beef stew, with fresh meat- just the way you like it."

"Mmm. Sounds fantastic."

"'Course it does, I'm cooking it. C'mere and help me."

He laughed and stood, walking over to his wife. She lit the stove with her wand, and then turned. She noticed the look in her husband's eyes and tilted her head curiously, smiling. "What?"

"You're beautiful," Remus said softly.

She laughed. "Remus, I just got off work; I definitely don't-"

He cut her off by kissing her gently, chastely, on the lips. When he pulled back, she gave him a happy, lazy grin. "That was nice," she murmured, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him back-

A wail suddenly broke from the other room, startling them both. Remus sighed. "Teddy's awake."

"Sounds like. I'll go get him; you start dinner."

"Alright." He started to rummage through the pots and pans for Dora's big stew-pot as his wife hurried off in the direction of their wailing child. At last he found it, filled it with water, and set it to start boiling on the stove-top.

He turned to see his wife standing in the entryway of the kitchen, with his infant son bundled up in her arms. The boy was entangling his tiny fingers in her bubblegum hair, making his mother laugh. "No, no, you don't want that," Dora teased, pulling the strands of pink out of his chubby fists. Teddy scrunched up his nose, his hair turning blue in displeasure.

Remus chuckled lightly under his breath, and realized that he was content. The heartwarming household scene had served to dissuade any fears he had about taking the position Minerva had offered. Surely, anyone who could have had a hand in producing such perfection as his son, who could have wed such beauty as his wife, could not be any dark creature. _It's a disease,_ he thought firmly to himself, _a disease and nothing more. And I'm just about done letting it hinder my life._

Dora had noticed him staring at her, and winked. He laughed outright, and found, looking at her and his infant son, that for the first time in a very long while, he was truly and genuinely happy.

Yes, this was all he needed: himself, his wife, and his newborn child- and a career to start, and a future to plan, and a life to begin. Begun a bit late, perhaps, but a life both full and new.

* * *

 **A/N: So there's the first chapter! In case it wasn't clear in the summary, this will be a multi-chapter story about the life of the Lupins following the War- an AU where they survive, obviously, because IMHO, their "happily ever after" was cut too short far too quickly. See you all soon! Pax et bonum! -FFcrazy15  
**


	2. Chapter 2: The First Full Moon

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here. I would also like to formally thank Ms. Rowling for allowing respectable fan writers, such as myself, to post derivative works such as this, and invite her to have tea at my place anytime she likes.

 **Warnings: distressed!Lupin, featuring an overly protective papa wolf.** **Also, Dora nurses Teddy, but seriously, it's a normal part of life. Grow up.**

* * *

The mood hanging over the dinner table as of eight-o-clock on May 11th was a somber one, with little conversation and far too much of it forced.

Dora watched as her husband checked the clock for the umpteenth time, tapping his fork on the table anxiously, dressed in the old, worn bathrobe he used for his transformations and his face a grayish color reminiscent of bad oatmeal. She could tell he was even more nervous than usual, as he kept glancing to Teddy's room. The baby's constant fussing for the past two days had made them both fretful, wondering if it were a sign of the impending full moon, their son's first.

Dora suddenly set her fork down and declared shortly, "I'm full." She stood and cleared her plate to the kitchen sink, cleaned it with a muttered _scourgify,_ and placed the dish back in the cupboard. "You ought to take your potion now," she continued, taking the small pot off the stove where she'd been keeping it warm. She poured it into his favorite mug and walked over, setting it down on the table. The noise sounded just heavier than necessary.

Remus picked it up and eyed the distasteful concoction. It clung to the sides of the mug, green and nearer to a syrup or sludge than fluid liquid. As he watched, on lazy bubble rose through the murk and popped at the top. With a sigh, he lifted the mug and knocked it back in two gulps, before shuddering in revulsion.

He set the mug back down and glanced at the clock. Five minutes past. Twenty to go.

"We should probably wake Teddy up; poor thing won't be happy with us."

Remus nodded.

Tonks suddenly slammed her hand down on the table, making him jump. "For goodness' sake, Remus, say something!"

"And what am I supposed to say?" he demanded. "Dora, my son could be- I could've-"

"Teddy is going to be fine!"

"You don't know that!" All of his fear was bubbling out, now that the barrier of silence had been broken. "You can't know that, Dora!"

"He'll be with you the whole time!"

"It's too dangerous!"

"If you're right about this, then it'll be more dangerous for him on his own than with you there to help him!"

Remus sighed, anger and worry edging the breath. He knew she was right, but it still made him nervous. It was one thing to have your friends surrounding you, protected from any _mishaps_ by their animagi forms. It was even acceptable to curl up at your wife's feet and let her scratch that spot right behind your ears as she talked aimlessly about her day, tamed by the miracle potion that had brought such relief these past few years.

But it was an _entirely_ different manner to be watching over a human- and potentially, werewolf- child during a transformation.

But she was right. If Teddy had inherited his disease, then Dora couldn't risk being anywhere near him tonight. Administering Wolfsbane to a non-werewolf could be fatal, so if Teddy turned, he would have to do it without the calming effects of the potion. The only way to keep him from hurting himself in the process would be for his father to watch over him.

It was logical. That didn't mean Remus had to like it.

Dora reached over and squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. "It's going to be alright," she said comfortingly, and she _almost_ hid the note of maternal fear in her voice. "I'll go get Teddy."

She disappeared into the hallway, and Remus took a deep breath, and then another, hoping it would help.

It didn't.

Dora returned with a sleepy Teddy a few minutes later, bouncing the baby on her hip. "You know the plan?" Remus questioned her, taking Teddy into his arms.

"Of course I do. We've gone over it ten times already."

"Just say it out loud, Dora. Please. For my sake."

She sighed, slightly exasperated, and rattled off: "I'll wait until half past. If I hear you bark once, it means it's safe to come get him. If you bark twice, it means he's transformed and I shouldn't come down."

"And if I don't bark?"

Another sigh. "Remus-"

"Dora."

She glared at him, and then muttered, "If you don't bark, it means the potion didn't work and I need to come save our son."

"Good. Good," he breathed, relieved, and then the clock struck quarter-past. "Alright. I'm going to go down now; hopefully I'll see you soon."

"Alright," she said determinedly. "Fifteen minutes, Remus."

"Right." He waited as she gave their son a gentle kiss on his lemon-colored hair, and then she stood on tiptoe to kiss him. He did so, and then pressed his forehead to hers, breathed in her calming scent. It was their ritual. A promise that come morning, everything would be fine.

A moment later, he pulled away, murmured a low, "Love you, darling," and turned to the basement door. He slipped inside, closed and locked the door behind him, descended the stairs, and cast one last charm over the whole room. Nothing would be escaping this place without the ability to do some fairly advanced magic.

The basement was dark and damp; he lit his wand and paced back and forth for a few minutes, humming an old lullaby to his son and hoping Teddy wouldn't have to be woken up by- well, that he wouldn't have to wake up anytime soon. When the muggle watch on his wrist read eight-twenty, he let out a shaky breath and carried Teddy over to the small bassinet Dora had placed in the corner. Then he retreated to the far end and secured the collar around his head.

It was a large dog collar which had been chained to the wall, all three of which had been enchanted so as not to snap or crumble. This brought him some measure of calm, as it was highly unlikely he'd be able to escape it and attack his son if anything went wrong. A fairly simple clasp, it would not take much difficulty for him to undo, presuming the Wolfsbane did take effect, even without human hands and fingers. He clicked in the clasp and then waited, checking his watch every few seconds and watching the hand jump from eight-twenty to eight-twenty one. His heart skipped a beat. Twenty-two. His breath began to sharpen; his hands shook in trepidation against his will. Twenty-three.

At eight-twenty four, outside the little muggle house, the earth turned just enough so that the first ray of light from the full moon could spill over its curvature and in through the window of the tiny basement, its invisible call beckoning to life the wolf within his blood, and Remus screamed, dropping to his knees as pain struck every fiber of his form.

Within his legs and arms, the bones stretched and lengthened, far worse than the most agonizing growing pains. Hair pushed through the pores in his skin, coarse and grey. His teeth grew and sharpened, his whole face felt as though it were being twisted and pulled out of shape, his spine elongated to form a tail. The bulky form filled out the bathrobe, and the screams in his throat morphed into tortured bays as his vocal chords thickened. He howled, collapsed, and lay panting on the ground for several seconds, shuddering and waiting for the pain to die.

When at last it did, Remus let out a mental sigh of relief and thought, _It's over, thank heavens._ With that, he realized that the potion had indeed worked- realized he could in fact, _realize-_ and slowly pushed himself to his feet- er, paws- balancing on the back two for a few seconds at a time as he tried to work the clasp free. After a minute or so he managed it, and then shrugged off the bathrobe and listened intently, furry ears flicking this way and that.

A strange, pitiful noise met his sensitive ears- a sort of infantile mewling. Remus was instantly set on edge. The noise invoked a sense of paternal responsibility inside him, and he realized fearfully that it was not just his rational mind that thought so, either. The wolfish instincts had become protective, as well.

Slowly, hesitantly, he crept over to the bassinet, sniffing the air. The human scent was still strong, but that didn't mean anything, for the whole house was imbued with that scent. He sniffed at the bassinet, and here he caught the smell of wolf, though he knew- or rather, hoped- that could just be his own scent.

Tentatively, he knocked the bassinet with his snout. The rocker moved, but not enough, and he cursed himself inwardly for not putting Teddy in something a little lower to the ground. He knocked it again, harder, and the crib swung further than he'd meant it to. A whirl of gray tumbled out, and a moment later, Remus found himself looking down at a pitifully squalling wolf cub.

His heart ceased to beat.

 _No. No._ He chanted the word in his mind, as if it were some incantation that could reverse the past, could reverse nature. _Not Teddy. Not my son._

But he couldn't deny the truth before his very eyes. The cub- Teddy- let out a frightened squeal, clearly still shocked from the pain of the transformation. The wolf in him felt a very different, almost foreign urge- not to hunt, but to protect. Something had hurt his offspring. The wolf wanted to attack the threat, but didn't know where to turn.

Unfortunately, Remus's human mind did. For once, he wanted to follow the self-harming desires of the wolf, wanted to punish himself for his mistakes. His father's heart was being violently torn in half, for his greatest fear had come true: he'd passed his condition on to his own innocent child. He'd infected his beautiful son with a curse.

He was no better than Greyback.

The cub mewled again, now not so much out of pain as hunger- hunger? For what? For a mother's milk? For human flesh? What had he done? _Oh, Teddy, I'm sorry,_ he despaired inwardly. _Papa's so sorry._ Even as he watched, Teddy hungrily sank his own sharp fangs into his tiny paw, and let out a little yelp of pain.

In an effort to calm the child, he curled around him protectively, providing the cub with warmth. Teddy snuffled and mouthed his paw, and Remus suddenly realized the only solution to keep his son from harming himself, at least for that night. He willing offered his paw to the cub, who chewed on his toes like a teething infant (which, Remus supposed, he could be- he had no idea how development worked with werewolf cubs). The needle-sharp fangs dug painfully into his flesh, breaking skin and drawing blood, but Remus suffered it in silence, considering it he smallest penance he could have for having cursed an innocent child with such pain and suffering. He let out a low, comforting noise in the back of his throat, hoping the cub would understand. _It's okay now. Papa's here. Papa is not going to let anything bad happen to you… not again…_

His ears flickered, suddenly, as he took note of soft thumps coming from upstairs- Dora's footsteps, he realized. She was pacing back and forth on the kitchen floor, probably frantic with worry. Dread settled in his heart; he had to let her know, before she came down, ready to do what he'd told her had to be done. But how could he? How could he kill her hope?

He heard the footsteps pause, and then, weakly, head for the basement door. Before she could open it, he let out two short barks, and then ducked his head to his paws, ears lying flat in shame.

Upstairs, he heard her stop, and then- oh, how he hated this enhanced hearing- the low thump of her knees on the floor, and his wife's quiet sobs.

If a wolf could have cried, he would have joined her, his heart breaking with sorrow and terrible guilt. Instead, he simply let out a low, mournful howl, and heard Dora begin to weep all the harder above him.

* * *

Nymphadora awoke the next morning to find herself curled up uncomfortably against the basement door, beams of sunlight drifting in through the window. She checked the clock on the kitchen wall; it was still very early, only a little after six. She stretched, frowning in confusion, and wondered what had happened.

A second later, reality flooded into her mind.

For a long moment, she sat still, remembering. Remembering the two short barks that had effectively destroyed her last few shreds of hope. Remembered sobbing bitterly on the kitchen floor. Remembered falling asleep with her back to the door, wishing nothing more than that she could open it rush down into the basement to hold her child in her arms, comforting him, soothing him.

Remembered that her son was a werewolf.

Slowly, with her heart pounding in her throat, she forced herself to stand up stiffly and unlock the door, pulling it open just a crack.

Soft daylight filtered in through a window somewhere below her, but the stairs were designed in such a way that she couldn't see much of the basement from the landing. No noise met her ears, and, with a feeling like a weight in the pit of her stomach, she took the first step down the stairs, leaving the door open behind her. "Remus?" she called softly as she walked. "Remus, are you awake?"

No answer. Her heart thudded. _Let them be okay. Please, let them be okay._

"Remus?" She descended the last few steps. "Remus, what happ-"

She turned and stopped. Her husband didn't look up, red-eyed and crying silently over their motionless child.

For one horrible moment, she thought Teddy was dead. Then she saw her child fidget in his sleep… and saw the razor-thin cuts all over Remus's hands. "Oh my goodness," she breathed, kneeling down beside him. "Remus- Remus, look at me-"

He closed his eyes and let out a low, shuddering sob. Tonks pulled him into a consoling hug and let her husband dissolve in her embrace.

"What have I done?" he wept. "What have I done? My own son, Dora- my own child-!"

She stroked his hair and let the hot tears fall against her shoulders. "It's not your fault," she whispered. "It's not, Remus. You never wanted this to happen."

"I've cursed my own son. He'll suffer for the rest of his life because of me…" He drew back, brushing the child's fine, dark hair with his fingers even as he wept, the tears falling warm onto Teddy's face and blankets. "I'm sorry, so sorry," he choked out. "Please don't hate me. Please…"

And Tonks really couldn't be sure whether he were talking to her or to their son.

"He would never hate you," she said firmly, and tilted his tear-streaked face up by the chin. "And neither would I. Besides, if it had to happen this way, at least you're here for him. At least you'll be able to help him."

Remus nodded thickly, but the pain was still evident in his face. Dora sat silently beside him and let him cry; soon, her own face was glazed with tears of sorrow. She knew what the transformations had done to her husband, how horribly they tormented him; knew the fears that one day, the Wolfsbane potion he took would wear off too soon, or the batch would be defective, and he'd awaken to the stuff of nightmares; knew the stigma, the prejudice, the eyes watching them at every turn. She knew that this disease meant her son's earliest childhood would, at least one night a month, be one of intense suffering. She knew, and she grieved. And Remus grieved with her.

Perhaps it was the noise of this mourning that woke Teddy; perhaps he was simply tired of resting. Either way, without either of them realizing it, the month-old infant opened his eyes, and, after a few seconds of disoriented confusion, began to fuss.

Dora looked over, startled, and saw the child rooting up against Remus's arm. "Oh- he must be hungry," she murmured, momentarily distracted from her sorrows as she took the child into her arms and turned away, undoing the top few buttons of her shirt. Remus leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes as she nursed the child, exhausted by his grief and the sleepless night. Soon after, he heard his wife chuckling ruefully.

"You're awfully modest, aren't you?" she teased, forcing him to open his eyes. She was buttoning her shirt again. "Looking away while a lady nurses."

He managed a bare grin, but it wasn't convincing. Dora's smile faded. "What are we going to do, Remus?" she sighed.

He shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know how to raise a son with my condition, Dora. My parents- well, they did their best, but they weren't exactly stellar models on the rearing of a lycanthrope."

She nodded, and then reached over and took his hand. "Hey," she said seriously, looking into his amber eyes with her own warm brown. "We'll figure it out, alright? For goodness' sake, we helped bring down the empire of the most fearsome dark wizard Great Britain has ever seen; I think we can figure out how to raise a child. Even a werewolf pup, at that."

That managed to elicit a chuckle from him, and she gave a him a halfhearted, affectionate punch in the shoulder. With a sigh, Lupin stood up and offered her his hand, which Dora accepted.

"You go clean yourself up," she said, tugging teasingly on the collar of his bathrobe, "and I'll start some breakfast for the two of us. I'm sure a good plate of bacon and eggs will make you feel better."

He nodded and kissed her head. "I think they just might. Thank you, Dora." He turned to go.

"Oh, and Remus?" He glanced back, and she smiled, holding their son in her arms. New morning sun beamed down, lighting her hair afire like the first rosy rays of dawn, settling golden on the face of the product of their love, their little son. To him, it seemed a more lovely image than the fairest painted Madonna and Child. "You're not alone," she reminded him gently. "We're going to figure this out- _together."_

He found that he was smiling back- weakly, with too much worry in his eyes- but it was a smile, and he found that, although one of his most devastating fears had come to life, the future didn't look to terribly dismal: bacon and eggs for breakfast, a job, a home, a wonderful wife- and a _perfect, beautiful_ son. So life was a little more complicated now. So be it; he was alright with complicated. He could deal with complicated, if it meant that this vision of perfection would still be his.

"Of course we will," he agreed, and then headed up the stairs, feeling remarkably lighter than he had when he'd first come down.

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you all liked it; please leave a review to tell me what you thought! Pax et bonum, and see you all soon!  
**


	3. Chapter 3: The Registry and Diagon Alley

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here. I would also like to formally thank Ms. Rowling for allowing respectable fan writers, such as myself, to post derivative works such as this, and invite her to have tea at my place anytime she likes.

 **Warnings: none.**

* * *

Whatever Dora may have said, the morning of the 6th of June, 1998, brought far too much anxiety into Remus's mind. When the charmed bell on his bedside table began to ring, signifying the beginning of a new day, he silenced it and lay in bed for long after Dora had already gotten up, paralyzed and sick to his stomach with nervousness.

"Remus. Remus, love, you've got to get up."

He opened his eyes again and glanced up at Dora, swallowing. "Would it help if I said I'm sick?" he mumbled.

"No, it wouldn't." She sat down on the bed beside him, lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Love, you know this has to happen before the next full moon; we won't have another chance… in fact, we've put it off too long as it is…"

He sighed and pushed himself up tiredly to sit beside her. The full moon was four days away, and his joints were just beginning to stiffen. "I know," he sighed. "I know, Dora. But I…" He closed his eyes. "The last time I was there, I swore I would never have to go back. I swore it would _never_ be me…"

"Hey," she said softly, touching his cheek. He opened his eyes. "It's going to be alright," she told him seriously. "We'll just pop in, get it over with, and then go do your school shopping." She grinned and poked him in the stomach. "Professor."

He let out a chuckle against his will. "You make it sound like I'm a first-year."

"Aww, ickle Lupy-kins."

"You sound like George."

"We should stop there after we move in this August; I heard Ronald's working the counter until school starts up."

He smiled at that… and then his smile faded. Dora understood and took his hand into hers, squeezing it sympathetically. "Come on," she said, standing, "you get dressed, and I'll make breakfast, hm?"

He agreed to that, and she left him alone to get dressed. When he walked into the kitchen a quarter-hour later, dressed in his nicest slacks and newest cardigan, Dora had already set the handmade biscuits and jam- his favorite breakfast- out on the table, and was trying to spoon-feed Teddy his potion. "I know, I know it tastes like a hippogriff's rear end," she cooed, "but it'll make you so much happier in a few days…"

Remus felt a barb of pain hit his guilty conscience; the Wolfsbane did help with the suffering of the transformations, it was true, but even it could only do so much- its main purpose was to ensure rationality, not mitigate pain. He sat down beside them and murmured, "Allow me."

Dora handed him the spoon; he scooped up a small amount of the sludge-like concoction. "Alright, Teddy, here comes the dragon!" he exclaimed in a voice far too bright for his actual mood. "Roooooar! Rooooar!"

Teddy stared blankly at him.

"I think that only works for older babies," Dora commented. "Could we try mixing it with baby formula?"

"I wouldn't risk it… here, let me work on it. You go get ready; I won't start breakfast without you."

"Mm. Promise?"

"Promise."

She gave him a quick peck on the lips and then disappeared back into their bedroom. Remus took his wand to the mug of disgusting potion and diluted it, safely, with hot water via an _aguamenti;_ as an adult he knew it was better to get it over with quickly, but unfortunately, Teddy seemed obstinately resistant to drinking the potion strong. He poured the now much more fluid potion into one of Teddy's bottles and began to feed the infant lycanthrope that miracle potion for which he would never be able to thank a certain Mr. Damocles enough. "That's it," he murmured, as Teddy sucked at the bottle. "I know it's bitter, but you'll thank me for this one day…"

Quite unbeknownst to him, Dora had finished dressing and was now watching him from the open door of the bedroom, leaned against the doorpost with her arms crossed in front of her and a content expression on her features. It pained her that Remus was so agonized over the day's duty; no one, she was convinced, could possibly love their son better than the honest, goodhearted man before her.

Remus sighed as Teddy finally turned his face away from the bottle and began to fuss. As Dora walked over, he said tiredly, "Well, he only drank half of it- we'll just have to give him the rest throughout the day."

"That's alright. Have a biscuit?"

He smiled and balanced Teddy in his left arm as he took one of the jam-slathered biscuits. "Gladly."

They ate breakfast quickly, and Dora nursed Teddy as Remus collected their belongings for the trip. His hands had already begun to shake, and he cursed his ever-present cowardice. _Some Gryffindor you are. If James and Sirius could see you now…_

When at last they were ready, Dora bundled Teddy up in his blankets, and they linked hands. "On three," she said firmly. "One- Two-"

At _three,_ both closed their eyes. For a moment, the world was a whirl of non-color and wind, a thousand sensations and sounds passing all around them, and then-

Remus felt his feet hit hard pavement; he stumbled backwards, startled as ever, as Dora turned lightly, holding a perfectly calm Teddy in her arms with the rest of the London alleyway framed behind her. She chuckled. "Still not used to it? After all this time?"

"I grew up like a muggle; I'll never be used to jumping through wormholes," he muttered, blinking hard.

"Through what?"

"It's- never mind. How's Teddy?"

Dora glanced over, clearly not perturbed. "Well, he's still got both his eyebrows and doesn't seem to be in pain, so I'd say he's fine," she commented with a giggle. Teddy blinked up at her with- currently purple- eyes; there was never any real fear that their son would somehow splinch, since Dora was so used to doing side-along apparition for her work, but Remus couldn't help but worry.

They stepped out of the alley and joined the busy throngs of people in the street. The pavement was wet- it had apparently just rained- and several folks were holding folded umbrellas. Dora took the lead, naturally more familiar with the way, and in a few minutes the werewolf found himself standing before a public bathroom.

They slipped inside and got in line behind several other wizards and witches, most in ministry uniform, like his wife. Dora had insisted on wearing her work clothes, hoping that whichever stuffy ministry employees were working the desks that day would give him less trouble if he were accompanied by one of their own.

Soon they were next in line; Dora winked at him and said, "See you in a minute!" before stepping inside the stall. He heard a flush, and then the door opened automatically.

By the time he arrived in the ministry floo-fireplace, Dora was waiting for him over by the fountain. "Come on!" she called, waving her hand impatiently. Remus hurried after her, taking a glance at the fountain as he passed; it had been rebuilt, naturally, since Riddle's fall, and now featured a simple golden obelisk, on which were engraved all the victims of the First and Second War. He tried to search for names of anyone he knew in a short glance; the only one his eyes caught was that of: _Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, 1997._

The general administration desks were not too far behind; Dora stopped at the first and said cheerfully, "Wotcher, Jill!"

The witch glanced up, startled. "Tonks!" she said, happily surprised. "I thought you were still just working part-time; did Kingsley call you in?" Clearly it was common knowledge throughout the Ministry that spitfire Dora had not been able to stay in her maternal sickbed for long, although Remus had insisted Shacklebolt put her on part-time work unless there was an emergency. Dora had agreed, happy to spend as much time as possible with the newborn- and incredibly adorable- baby Teddy as possible.

"No, we're here on personal business today; we've got an appointment with the Department of Magical Creatures?"

Jill blinked; then her eyes swiveled to Remus. He forced himself to hold her gaze. "…I see," she said, suddenly a little awkward. "Let me see…" she turned to a blank sheet of parchment before her, tapped it twice with her wand, and murmured the name _"Lupin"_ under her breath. After a moment, a schedule appeared in black ink. She scanned it, and Remus saw her eyes widen. "With, er, with the werewolf registry office?" she said hesitantly, glancing up. Her eyes landed on their son, and Remus realized- much to his personal embarrassment- that Teddy's eyes had returned to their natural light amber- a color they had consistently assumed ever since his first full moon a month previous.

"That's the one," Dora replied calmly. "Can you call a lift?"

"Er- certainly- just a mo'-" She tapped a little bell on her desk, flustered, not looking Lupin in the eyes. He took a steadying breath, and then realized that several of the ministry workers nearby had turned to stare.

The lift arrived a few seconds later; Jill saw them off, still looking uncomfortable. The Lupins stepped into the elevator and shut the gate; as it sped off to the left, Dora said kindly, "She's really quite sweet, you know- just not comfortable with the whole werewolf thing yet. But she's never given me a snarky look, so I think she'll come 'round pretty soon."

Remus nodded, swallowed. The incident, humiliating as it had been, had already been driven from his mind by other worries. The lift dropped down several floors at record speed, and then the gate opened with an all too cheery _ding!_

They stepped off, and Dora set off briskly down the hall. Remus followed, with every step feeling the dread in his stomach grow heavier and darker. These walls were too familiar. This floor was too familiar. At last, they stopped in front of a large wooden door at the end of the hall. Dora, still holding Teddy, motioned him forward. "Go ahead," she said gently. "It's okay, Remus."

He took a deep breath and tried to believe her, pulling the door open by the knob.

The moment he stepped inside, recognition hit him like as lap in the face.

The room was narrow and quite small, but had a tall, arched ceiling; most of the room was filled with rows upon rows of books. Remus glanced to the nearest title; _Registry of Lycanthropy and its Carriers Thereof, Volume VI: 1200-1300._

At the far end of the room was a small raised dais, supporting a slant-topped desk. Behind the desk sat a sharp-faced witch, and atop it rested a large, official-looking volume. At the sight of that great tome, the memories flooded back against his will…

* * *

 _"You do understand what this means, Mr. Lupin?"_

 _A seventeen-year-old Remus nodded, mouth tight, skin pale. As if he hadn't responded, the wizard continued, "You are now a legal adult under all wizarding codes and statutes- including the Lycanthropy Prevention and Eradication Act of 1922."_

 _Eradication. He swallowed harsh at that word. He knew the term was being applied in regards to the disease- but still, the way the ministry man glared him down, he felt as if the other wizard would have preferred it to be an eradication of Remus himself._

 _"Although the Act is complex, the most important part for you to bear in mind is what is termed the 'Second Offense Principle.' The Ministry is not unsympathetic to your… condition; however, we must always bear in mind the rights of innocent bystanders…"_

 _Remus understood. He understood this perfectly. He himself had once been an 'innocent bystander.'_

 _"…As such, the law currently states that any adult lycanthrope will be held responsible for all subsequent infections, unintentional or otherwise. An intentional infection incurs automatic lifelong incarceration. Two or more unintentional infections carry a minimum five-year sentence in Azkaban, more if the victim requests. Does this all make sense to you? Good. Now sign here…"_

* * *

Dora's hand reaching for his broke through his thoughts; he let her slender fingers sweep up his like an interlocking weave of thread, and followed her almost numbly down the length of the room and up the steps to the desk.

The sharp-faced ministry witch glanced up at him as he approached. "Mr. and Mrs. Lupin, I would presume," she said coolly. "You made an appointment with the office?"

"Yes…" Dora looked to him, and Remus realized that he would have to be the one to do the talking.

"Yes, we did," he repeated, as calmly as he could manage. "We're here to report an…" _Just say it. Spit it out, you coward._ "…An unintentional infection."

The witch raised an eyebrow. "I see. And which one of you was the victim?"

"Not victim. Carrier." Remus clenched his hands tightly. "I- that is, my son-"

"Your son?"

"Yes. Teddy. I mean, Edward." Why was he so tongue-tied? He was a professor now, for Merlin's sake. "He was- he was born with the condition. Passed on from myself."

"I see. And you're quite certain that he is, in fact, your son?"

He felt Dora stiffen beside him; anger swelled up. _"Yes,_ he is my son!" he said sharply.

The other eyebrow rose. "Forgive me, Mr. Lupin," the witch said coolly, "only it has always been believed that werewolves are sterile by nature."

"Yes, well, that's the Ministry's problem, not mine," he retorted dismissively. "In any case, we're here to register him, and record his infection under my name."

"I see. You are aware, of course, of the Second Offense Principle?"

"I am."

"Very well." She flipped through the pages of the book and picked up her quill. "Let me see, Lupin… Lupin… here we are, Lupin, Remus J. Infected by Justin MacIntyre, alias Fenrir Greyback?"

"That's it."

"I see. And the name of your son?"

"Edward Remus Lupin."

"Date of birth?"

"April 24th, 1998."

He watched her hand cross the page in slanted, blue-ink cursive in the right-hand column:

 _Name: Lupin, Edward R.; Relationship: son; Date: 24/4/1998; Method:_

At _method,_ she paused, before writing down the last words:

 _Unintentional (genetic)_

Remus ground his teeth; he knew exactly what the witch was thinking, and it sickened him. That Dora would ever betray him for another man was beyond insulting. That he might ever turn their child out of revenge… unthinkable.

The witch tapped the page with her wand; another line appeared just above his, and she copied down the same information, entering Teddy as an official carrier. "Mr. Lupin, I am obliged to remind you that, under the Second Offense Principle, another infection of this sort will result in a minimum five-year sentence; any intentional infections incur a lifetime penalty. Your... son, must also present himself on his seventeenth birthday to be informed of his rights and responsibilities as a carrier of lycanthropy. You may go."

And without so much as a word, they left.

"See now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Dora said, likely more calmly than she really felt, as they walked down the hall to the lift.

"She implied that my son is the bastard product of your betrayal and that I turned him in revenge," Lupin muttered. "I don't see how that could've gone any worse."

Dora patted his arm. "Let's not worry about her; we've got more important things to do. Diagon Alley, remember?"

He brightened considerably at that; even the trip back through the ministry upper levels and out into the London sunlight couldn't dampen his mood, now that the most unpleasant part of the day was over. He and Dora returned to the alley, apparated, and found themselves standing at the corner of Diagon and Knockturn.

There was no need to visit Gringots; McGonagall had provided him with enchanted slips of payment bearing her signature, which would, with one tap of his wand, transfer the inscribed payment for any school supplies necessary from the school account into that of the vendor. Remus, privately, was grateful; he hated visiting Gringots and had ever since he was a child. Nothing but bad news had ever come from such journeys, and his old prejudice against the bank still stood, despite the fact that his vault was now not so desperately near to empty as it had been in the past, thanks to Dora's paycheck. _And soon, mine,_ he thought, with no mild satisfaction.

Diagon Alley was cheerfully busy, sparkling in the morning sunlight from the now-passed rain-shower. They stopped first at Flourish and Blott's, putting in an order for a set of Advanced Defense textbooks and picking up a set of quills and ink on the side, and then Dora dragged him into Madame Malkin's for a set of robes ("Dora, I _have_ dress robes!" "McGonagall said _new,_ Remus; and for Merlin's sake, stop fidgeting!"), before they both agreed to a cup of coffee at the small cafe at the end of the street. Dora took to trying to feed Teddy the rest of his Wolfsbane as Remus flipped through his teacher's copy of the textbook; it seemed to be fairly advanced, but he had no doubt that his students- many of whom had fought in the battle a few months previous- would be able to handle it.

"Professor! Professor Lupin!"

He looked up, startled, to see two wizards and a witch approaching quickly from the other end of the street. His face broke into a grin as he caught a flash of sunlight reflect off the glasses, as well a one figure sporting a distinctively red and another a distinctively bushy-brown head of hair. "Harry! Hermione, Ron!"

He stood as the three rushed up to him, breathless and carrying several shopping bags apiece. "Merlin, it's good to see you all!" he laughed, giving them each a hug.

"You too, Professor. Oh, hello, Tonks!" Harry said happily, looking to the auror.

Dora grinned and winked. "Wotcher."

"Ohhh!" Hermione had, apparently, noticed the infant in the auror's arms, and quickly began to fawn over Teddy, cooing and poking at his tiny fingers. Lupin chuckled as Harry and Ron looked on with interest. "Oh, Professor, he's _beautiful!"_

"He's showing off," Lupin replied, as the baby's hair turned bright orange. "I suppose that means he likes you."

"He'd better; it'd be a shame for him to hate his own godfather," Harry said with a grin, tickling the baby's belly. "He looks like you, Professor- or at least, he does today."

Everyone laughed at that, and then Lupin added, "But aren't you all a little early to be buying school supplies?"

"We wanted to beat the rush," Harry explained.

"He's being modest," Ron corrected. "He means that we wanted to escape the reporters."

"Unwanted press?"

"They're effing piranhas," the redhead grumbled. "If you think they went nuts over the Boy Who Lived, they've gone positively bonkers over the Boy Who Lived, Died, and Came Back To Finish The Job."

Harry was now blushing profusely and giving his friend a rather evil look.

"I can imagine, yes," Lupin agreed. "Not to mention the Best Mate and the Girl Genius."

Ron and Hermione scoffed and rolled their eyes in unison. Lupin hid a grin (it was as if they couldn't help being adorable) and said, "Well sit down and have a cup of coffee; we've hardly seen anyone since…" He trailed off, but everyone understood.

"Luna's doing well; so's Neville- they're going together now, did you hear?- but he's had to fend off the press, too," Ron commented, sitting down. "His grandmother's nearly been floating with pride. Every time any of us makes a visit, she goes over the whole story- about him killing Nagini, you know- as if we weren't right there when it happened."

"Still, it's good for him," Hermione added. "He was a real hero, running the DA with the Carrows breathing down his neck- But Tonks, what is that you're feeding Teddy?" She eyed the pale, pea-soup green concoction with mild interest. "Some sort of development potion?"

The two Lupins glanced at each other; Remus cleared his throat. "No, it's- it's Wolfsbane, actually."

He waited, for approximately half a second, before all of their eyes went wide, and he knew that the knut had dropped.

"Oh. Oh, Professor- I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to-" Hermione flushed red guiltily.

"No, it's fine," Remus said dismissively. "It's just… something we'll have to get used to, that's all."

Everyone paused their conversation and looked over as a waitress approached. "Good afternoon, folks; I'm Marlene and I'll be your-" She stopped suddenly, dropped her pen. All three teenagers' faces changed instantly, adopting a look of barely repressed apprehension. "Merlin's Beard. It's Harry Potter!"

"Yes, could I, er, have a-"

"Oh, but my daughter's a huge fan! Any chance I could have your autograph?"

"Er- sure- I s'pose-"

She hastily fumbled for her notebook and another pen and shoved them at him, with a quick, "Her name's Esmerelda." Harry quickly wrote a short message and signed his name. The waitress accepted it back with a gushing, "Oh, thank you, Mr. Potter, she'll be so pleased! Now- oh! What can I get you all to drink today?"

After writing down their orders on a separate sheet, the waitress disappeared back over to the counter; the small group could see her gossiping excitedly with her coworkers, who were all peering over curiously. Harry groaned, flushing bright red, and tried to shrink lower in his chair. Ron was smirking. "What'd you write?" he questioned, nearly chortling.

"I dunno- _'best wishes,'_ or something," Harry muttered.

"I think you should start signing 'em, _'Be brave. Be bold. Be true. Yours, Harry James Potter.'"_

"Oh, shove off," the bespectacled wizard mumbled, as Hermione chastised the snickering Ron with a hissed, "Stop it, you're embarrassing him."

"That's kind of the point, isn't it? Besides, it's not like you and I don't get the same thing; may as well have some fun with it."

 _"Tell me_ you haven't signed anything like that-"

"Here you folks are!" The waitress- Marlene- had returned, breathless with three cappuccinos in hand, and a muffin for Ron. "Well, I-I think that's everything- thank you again, Mr. Potter- have a nice day!" She did some sort of odd little curtsy and hurried away, smiling like mad.

"Don't worry," Hermione sighed, "soon we'll be back in school and then it'll be back to normal…"

They drank their coffee in relative peace thereafter; Lupin discovered that they were all signed up to take his class come fall term. "Well I'm honored, really- although I must admit, I'm surprised to know the three wizards who almost single-handedly brought down the most fearsome wizard in Great Britain are going back to school," Remus said curiously.

"First off, it was hardly single-handed. Second, Hermione here put us up to it," Ron replied. "Said we needed to complete our education properly, 'specially with Harry and I applying for auror training in the spring- just like you, Tonks."

"Are you really? That's wonderful!" Dora exclaimed. "You're both bound to be brilliant."

"But can't you all test out of the class?" Lupin inquired.

"Actually, sir, we can't," Hermione said, a little embarrassed. "McGonagall's made it a requirement for all seventh-years, you see, and really, I think do she's right about that. Harry- well, he's a good teacher, and he brought a lot of the DA up to snuff in our fifth year, but…"

"But our Defense education has been pretty lacking," Harry finished honestly. "We're good at what we know- producing a patronus, stunning, disarming, blocking- but those'll only go so far in auror work, and it definitely won't let Ron and I pass the entrance exams. So…" He shrugged. "We decided another year in school wouldn't be the worst fate. I'm actually looking forward to it; with Tom gone, we can really focus on our studies, like normal students."

"Well, 'mione always did a lot of focusing," Ron said, jerking his elbow at the witch (who smiled proudly) and then taking a bite of his muffin. "But looks like we'll have to buckle down this year, eh, mate?"

"Exactly."

"I'm sure you'll do fine," Dora commented, "you're all good students- oh, Remus, he's finished." She took the now-empty bottle away from Teddy, who looked as pleased as a two-month-old infant can to be free of a rather unpleasant taste, and tucked it into her bag. Teddy crossed his eyes, which turned from gold to green to blue and back again in the space of a few seconds, causing the teenagers to ooh and aw in delight.

All too soon, the three students had to be on their way; after a quick goodbye to the professor and auror, with promises to see each other again once school started, the three best friends hurried off down the street. Remus watched them go, smiling. "They've really grown up, haven't they?"

"They have," Dora agreed. "Teddy's going to have a lot of good influences around him." They both looked down to the infant in her arms, who was cooing happily and reaching for his mum's bubblegum-pink hair. Remus smiled, and, taking one last glance to the back of the retreating dark-haired wizard, accompanied by his two best friends, he decided that he couldn't possibly have made a better choice in the godfather of his son.

* * *

 **A/N: Aaand y'all thought this fic was gonna be strictly Remadora, din'cha! Haha sorry folks, but trust me, I think you'll like where this all goes. For the record, here are the following pairings that will be featured in this story: Remus/Dora, Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, slight Luna/Neville and one mystery couple who will be revealed soon enough. :) Also, to anyone wondering about why the date appears backwards in the registry, that's the British way of writing dates. Hope you all enjoyed it! Pax et bonum!**


	4. Chapter 4: Moving In

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here.

 **Warnings: none, except Tonks and Remus being husband-wife cute.  
**

* * *

The leaves of the Scottish highland forests were just beginning to change when Remus, Dora and Teddy arrived, two days before the start of fall term.

Dora took a big breath of the early fall air and sighed. "Ahh, I love Scotland," she said happily, balancing a sleeping Teddy in her arms. "No better place."

"Not even London?" Remus teased.

She made a face. "London is an exception. You can't not love London." It was true; he knew how much his wife loved the rush of the city, the pulsing of the muggle cars in the blacktop beneath her feet, the way the lights at night looked from atop a broom. As for himself, London was not at all his taste. Too loud. Too rude. Too fast. No, Scotland was where his heart lay- in that castle, most precisely, tucked between two pine-bristled mountains with mist rising off the loch in the early morning. Quiet, peaceful perfection.

"C'mon, let's go show Teddy his new home," Dora said with a smile, and together they set off down the road that led from the castle to Hogsmead, pulling their trunks behind them.

The walk was a short one, and after five minutes or so, they rounded a bend and the castle came into view. Remus felt his breath catch in his throat for a minute; yes, this was Hogwarts, stalwart, strong, and fair in the bright afternoon sunlight. A little beat up, perhaps, but the castle had stood for centuries and would continue to stand for centuries more, bearing the brunt of irresponsible students and bitter wars alike.

McGonagall was present to greet them at the great oak door. "You're late," she informed them, _tsking_ her tongue. "I hope you won't be making a habit of this, Professor Lupin."

Despite the change in title, Remus still felt like a schoolboy being reproved by his Transfiguration teacher. "No, Headmistress."

McGonagall's eyes seemed to crinkle at that, as if she were just barely restraining a warm smile. "Alright, well, let's get you settled in. The rest of the faculty is already here; we'll be discussing the upcoming year at the staff meeting tonight." Lupin's eyes went wide- he hadn't heard there was going to be a meeting- and she snorted. "Don't look so nervous, Remus; we're just introducing the new staff, not planning your immanent demise." Tonks snorted beside him, and he scowled at his wife as McGonagall turned to lead them inside. "Right this way."

The castle was almost precisely as he remembered it. There were, here and there, a few missing paintings- how well did he know them, passing them by daily for seven years and then an eighth after that?- and sections of stone or wall that were clearly new. Minerva saw him looking and said, "She's strong. She'll bear up."

"She?" Remus murmured.

"The school. There's a reason the founders chose a castle, you know. She was built for this sort of trouble. Up this way, if you please."

They trod the well-worn stone stairs up to the teachers' quarters, and then took a sharp turn to the left. Remus started; he had been unconsciously expecting- ridiculously, now that he thought about it- to turn right, down which way had been situated his old apartment, five years previous. Instead, Minerva led them to a much shorter hall, stopping in front of a heavy oak door.

"It's not often we employ family men, and most who do usually take up residence in the village; nevertheless, I think this should be adequate for the two of you and the little one." She reached into the inner pockets of her emerald-green robes and retrieved a heavy, pewter skeleton key. Remus liked it immediately. "Turn it three times and say the password; currently it's _fiddlestick flounces,_ but you can change it to whenever you please."

"Fiddlestick flounces," Remus repeated dubiously, taking the key.

"Don't ask me; it was Flitwick's last and he liked the way it sounded. Well, I'll leave you to settle in then," she said frankly, "and I expect to see you at the meeting. Seven sharp, Remus- oh, and you're invited too, Tonks- er- Dora."

"Me? Why me?" the auror questioned, surprised.

"It's a bit of a function, really- work first, then pleasure." She pointed at him. "Seven sharp."

"Seven sharp," he repeated. She gave him a rare smile, nodded kindly to Dora and Teddy, and then swept off down the hall.

"Being a headmistress suits her, don't you think?" Dora said conversationally. "Well come on then, open it up!"

He unlocked the door and pushed the heavy oak open. The moment he did, he let out a surprised gasp, and Dora behind him murmured, _"Ahhh!"_

The apartment was, in a word, lovely. All gray stone, from ceiling to floor, it was nevertheless incredibly homey. Sunlight streamed in from the south-facing windows, which looked out onto the grounds and lit up the living/dining room with a sunny cheer. Three doors lined the western wall, and two more on the north, one which was open and which they could see led to a small kitchen. Between two of the three doors was a fireplace, before which stood an old, homey couch, a rocking chair, and a coiled hearthrug. On either side of the front door stood large oak bookshelves, which matched the table, and on the later sat a glass vase of fresh-cut lilacs.

"Oh, Remus," Dora exclaimed, "It's lovely!" Teddy cooed in her arms. "I wonder what the doors are?" She hurried over and began trying them. "Let's see- that's the loo… ah, that must be a bedroom, perfect size for the nursery… and… _oh!"_

Remus (who had gone to inspect the room adjacent to the kitchen and had found it to be a well-stocked study, complete with two writing desks), crossed over to the door nearest the southern wall, where Dora was standing in the entryway, looking inside with tears glittering in her eyes. Her husband came up beside her and soon realized what had made his new bride so emotional.

The master bedroom was as quaintly perfect as the rest of the apartment. The other half of the fireplace (it had two hearths, one in the living room and one on the opposite side in the bedroom) stood before a hard-oak bed frame with dark, polished knobs, a thick mattress, and a cream-and-white bedspread, embroidered in a meandering floral pattern with tiny red buds stitched into the comforter. The cream-colored curtains had been tied aside to let the sunlight stream in and fill the room, brightening the aura created by the matching dark-oak bookshelves and side tables. Another rocking chair of the same material sat just beside the windows- perfect, Remus noticed, for rocking a small child in the wee hours of the morning. He felt a lump rise in his own throat; he and Dora had never dreamed they'd be able to afford anything quite so charming as this. "Dora, it's beautiful," he said quietly.

"Oh, Remus," she whispered tearfully, turning to bury her face in his chest. He chuckled and wrapped his arms around her and Teddy. "I'm so glad. So glad…" She sniffled and pulled back to look at him. "I mean, I would've been happy anywhere with you, but… this is what you deserve, after everything you've been through, everything you've sacrificed for the rest of us. And I'm so happy that I get to be here to see you enjoy it. I'm happy our son will grow up here, in this castle…"

"And I'm happy," he murmured softly, kissing her forehead, "That I get to share it all with you."

* * *

Remus fidgeted slightly in his seat as the other professors filed into the room; the meeting/staff party had been called in one of the larger classrooms, and he was doing his best to remind himself that he belonged here, that he wasn't out of place, that he had _earned_ this position, after all, and by golly he was going to act like it.

He snorted lightly at his own silly attempt at bravado and wished that Dora was with him; she'd opted to stay in the apartment until after the meeting was over (which McGonagall had predicted would only last half an hour), not wanting a fussing infant to disrupt their work, and then come to the party afterwards. As he mused over the peculiarities of having a child, he glanced around the room. There were many familiar faces; Hagrid caught his eye and gave him a little (or massive, depending on how one looked at it) wave with his hand, dark eyes crinkling as he smiled. Professors Flitwick and Sprout greeted him personally as they walked in; Trelawney patted his hand in her sympathetic way that always made him feel as if she thought he were about to die; and from across the room, Firenze gave him a solemn nod. Although Remus put very little stock in any form of divination, he had a deep respect for the centaur, who understood, like himself, the trials of trying to reconcile the worlds of wizardry and pack (or herd, as it were) into some sort of harmony. Others he recognized and greeted with a polite nod of his own, and still others were entirely foreign to him.

Of these last, he amused himself for a few minutes by trying to discern which jobs they taught. There was a young blonde witch who wore winged glasses and had tied her hair back in a bun, and had an intelligent demeanor about her; then a graying wizard with a distinguished mustache, who appeared very academic in his professional dress robes; and the last, a wizened old witch who used a cane.

"Good evening, everyone," a voice called, and everyone turned to see Professor McGonagall enter the room, a few folders and a book held in hand. Everyone quickly took their seats as the headmistress crossed to the front of the classroom and set her materials down on the teaching podium. "Welcome," she said brusquely, "and to those of who you are returning staff, welcome back. I trust everyone had a pleasant summer?" There was a general murmur of assent. "Very good, very good. As you are well aware, fall term begins in two days, on the first of September; all of your ordered materials have arrived, and are set up in your respective classrooms.

"Undoubtedly you are wondering why I have arranged for this meeting; frankly, I think a collective gathering before the start of term is helpful for all of us in the case that we may have any concerns about the upcoming year. Moreover, considering that we have acquired or reinstated several new and former employees, I thought it would do finely for us all to get acquainted. I'll start with the new introductions; Professor Mathilde Kemp, my replacement in Transfiguration;-" The blonde witch rose and inclined her head, and then sat again. "-Professor Edith Oakley, who will be teaching Ancient Runes due to the retirement of our own Professor Babbling;-" The old witch nodded politely, "-And Professor Jacob Niles, who has accepted both the Arithmancy and Muggle Studies positions, which were once held by our dear Septima Vector and Charity Burbage, may they rest in peace."

The mustached wizard inclined his head respectfully, and several of the staff murmured their agreement to this; Professor Vector had died valiantly fighting off three death eaters during the battle, and Charity Burbage at the hands of Tom Riddle himself.

"Returning to our staff this year are Professor Rubeus Hagrid, Care of Magical Creatures-"

"'Lo," Hagrid said cheerfully, waving again.

"-Professor Firenze, who has graciously agreed to take over the Astronomy position, due to Professor Sinastra's retirement-" Firenze nodded politely. "And Professor Remus Lupin, Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Lupin smiled. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"For our new staff, from my left we have Professor Sprout, Herbology; Professor Flitwick, Charms; Professor Binns, History of Magic; Professor Slughorn, Potions…" And so on. When she was finished, McGonagall concluded, "Again, Hogwarts welcomes you all, and I'm certain that this will be a fruitful school year."

"Far more fruitful than the last," Sprout muttered under her breath, and there was a general chuckle. Minerva bit her lip as if repressing a smile.

"Thank you, Pomona; that actually brings me to our next item on the agenda. As many of you are well aware, the last year was supremely detrimental to all of our students, not to mention our status as a school. However, I think you all deserve a proper explanation of _why:_ mainly, the purpose behind some of Headmaster Snape's decisions here at the school." Several faces grew dark at this; someone made a sound as if spitting on the hardwood. Minerva held up her hand. "Believe me, I understand the sentiments in this room about Severus are far from friendly, but he has done a far greater service to our school and the wizarding world than you know."

To the incredulous expressions, she quickly recounted the story that Lupin had already heard from Harry several months previous; when she was finished, several people still looked disgruntled, but more than a few appeared grudgingly impressed, and one or two were in tears. Madame Pomfrey was dabbing at her eyes with a hanky. "In short, his protection and care of our students, while still appearing to maintain loyalty to Tom Riddle, was nothing short of brilliant and, in my opinion, one of the most courageous acts of selflessness this school has ever seen. I can only hope to fill this position as well as he did."

She paused here, and then said, with great care in her choice of words, "It is not lost on me that many of you are still suffering deeply from the effects of the battle. We have all lost some very dear friends; Charity and Septima were among some of the most admirable teachers this school has ever had the privilege to employ. Moreover, too many of our students- who you and I have watched grow from children into brave, selfless adults- gave their lives for their friends and for the greater good of our people. It is in their honor, and in the honor of all those who died at the hands of Tom Riddle and his followers, that I want us all to work to return this school to its former dignity, which was lost under the Carrows. For this reason, any instances or allegations of involvement of dark matters, made against students or staff, are to be treated very seriously. Naturally anyone called under such suspicion shall be treated as innocent until proven guilty, but make no mistake: the truth in such cases will be sought until it is found." Her gaze was so sharp that even Remus felt a chill of trepidation run down his back. Merlin forbid he should ever be so unfortunate as to experience the full force of Minerva McGonagall's fierce protection of her students and her school.

"On a lighter note," she continued, now in less frightening tones, "there are two final matters on the agenda for tonight: first, I would like to remind you that all students are now required to take both Defense Against the Dark Arts and History of Magic up to and through seventh year; second, I would like to announce the promotion of Professor Lupin as my successor of Head of Gryffindor House, and congratulate him as such." The rest of the staff broke into applause; startled, Lupin stood and clasped his hands, looking to the Headmistress with confusion. She merely joined the applause, eyes crinkling as she smiled.

When the clapping had ceased, McGonagall said, "And with that, I move the meeting be adjourned; all in favor, say _Aye."_

 _"Aye,"_ the other professors chorused, and everyone stood. With a wave of her wand, the new Headmistress caused several platters of food and a punch bowl full of spiced wine to appear on the table behind her, and everyone moved towards the food excitedly. Remus heard the clock chiming half-past outside, and knew that Dora would be on her way.

As McGonagall passed him by, he reached out and caught her shoulder. "Professor, a word?"

She raised an eyebrow but followed him over to the corner. "I suppose you're wondering about your new promotion?" she asserted tartly.

"Actually, I am; why would you appoint me to Head? I've only taught for a year," he inquired, baffled. "Wouldn't Hagrid be the more appropriate choice? He's certainly been here longer."

"And moreover, you're wondering why you are only finding out about this now?" Minerva said shrewdly. He nodded, and she replied, "Unfortunately, due to the reconstruction efforts, my schedule got pushed very late over the summer; as such, the matter of appointing a new head of house had to be put to the last minute. I did offer the position to Hagrid last week, but he turned me down."

"Did he? Why?"

"Part of the duty of Head of House is to counsel the fifth and seventh years in career decisions; he felt he was not the best man for the task and graciously requested I offer it to you. I'm sorry I didn't have the chance to inform you beforehand, but I figured you wouldn't cause a scene."

Lupin chuckled, now a little more at ease with the decision. "Alright, professor, if you insist…"

"I do insist," she said firmly, and then in a more gentle tone: "You're going to do fine, Remus. Believe it or not, you're actually quite a good teacher."

 _I'm not so sure about that._ Remus "mm"ed noncommittally and hoped she was right.

"Wotcher, love."

He turned to see Dora grinning at him widely, an awake-and-happy Teddy balanced on her hip. "Hey," he said happily, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. "How's he doing?"

"Fine; he was a little fussy when I woke him, but he seems to be perfectly content now."

"Oh my," Minerva said happily, "Oh Nymphadora, he's beautiful. May I…?"

"Sure." The mother passed her child into the arms of the older matron, who looked as if someone had told her she was getting a paid sabbatical.

"Oh, what a handsome boy!" She tickled his foot. "And he's gotten so _big,_ goodness, Dora, he's moving right along!" As if to prove her point, Teddy's hair turned the same green as the professor's robes, and he reached up, grabbing with surprising strength at her right sleeve. "Ahh, aren't you smart! Aunt Minnie could just eat you right up, indeed she could!"

Remus and Dora grinned at each other with barely suppressed chuckles; 'Aunt Minnie' poked Teddy's nose and kissed his head, grinning more widely than they'd ever seen her. "He's quite taken with you," Lupin commented.

"Of course he is; I'm quite charming when I want to be, you know." She turned to Dora and said, "Well here, I mustn't be selfish; besides, I think he's a bit hungry." Even as she spoke, Teddy began to fuss. Dora accepted him back, and Remus could have sworn there was a twinkle of a tear in Minerva's smiling eyes.

They milled about through the rest of the party-goers, introducing themselves to the new teachers. Professor Kemp was very cordial, and sharp as a whip. She mentioned having been Head Girl as a Ravenclaw a little more than a decade previous; Remus thought privately that McGonagall had likely hand-chosen her for the position from among her former students. Professors Oakley and Niles greeted him politely and congratulated him on his promotion to head of house. About halfway through, Remus pulled Professor Slughorn aside and explained that he would need an extra dose of Wolfsbane per month for Teddy. Slughorn seemed to puff up with pride.

"But of course, but of course! Leave to me, Remus; your son will be getting _only_ the best! Fortunate for you to be employed under the same roof as me, eh?" Remus agreed and tried to repress his annoyance with the man's ever-burgeoning self-importance.

Before they knew it, the clock was striking eleven; Teddy had fallen asleep in Dora's arms two hours ago without them evening realizing. "Merlin, we'd better get him back to the apartment," Dora said guiltily. "How did we not realize how late it was?"

"We're new at this; we'll get the hang of it," he reassured her. "Besides, he seems to be sleeping alright now, so no harm done. But you're right, we should be going."

They made their apologies and headed out the door. As they crossed the threshold, McGonagall reached out and caught Remus by the arm. "Professor Lupin, a word with you?"

Dora glanced back; he gave her the nod to go ahead without him. As she took off down the hall, McGonagall pulled him aside to an abandoned corner of the hallway.

"Professor? What seems to be the matter?"

"Remus, I need to speak with you about one of your students," she said grimly, and by her use of his first name, he knew it was serious .

"One of my students?"

"A Miss Lavender Brown."

"Brown- Br- ah!" He remembered, suddenly, a young girl with bouncing golden curls and a tendency to flirt as best a thirteen-year-old can with all the other young men in her year. Another memory burst into color in his mind: a distraught Parvati Patil weeping into Ginny Weasely's arms, and the name _"Greyback"_ upon her lips. "She- she was the one Greyback murdered… wasn't she?"

"Not murdered. Attacked," McGonagall sighed, her relief tinged with sadness. "She survived. Barely. We all thought she was dead; if Miss Lovegood hadn't realized she was still breathing, we would never have gotten her to St. Mungo's in time."

"Why didn't you tell me of this sooner?"

"I didn't think she'd be well enough to return to school until at least spring term, but the healers at St. Mungo's have worked miracles on her case. She'll be reporting in a few weeks."

"And you're worried she'll be frightened around me," he inferred. "Professor, I completely understand-"

"Remus," Minvera broke in quickly. "That's… that's not all."

He frowned, confused.

"…Miss Brown… she's been infected with lycanthropy. The dangerous strain, that is, not the way Bill Weasely was…" McGonagall sighed, closed her eyes. "Remus, she's been turned."

It was as if he'd fallen and had the wind knocked out of him. Remus stared, gaping.

"I know, I know how difficult this must be for you, but Remus, she needs help-"

"But- that's impossible- Greyback, he wasn't-" his mind was reeling; the battle hadn't been during the full moon…

"Wasn't transformed, no. St. Mungo's can't understand it; they've been running tests all summer. The most they can conclude is that, seeing as Greyback's turned full, he can pass on the disease at any time. I'm sorry to say that Miss Brown is indeed a full-fledged werewolf."

"Oh my word," he whispered. "That poor child…"

"St. Mungo's didn't believe she'd been infected, but naturally they took precautions…"

"And the precautions paid off," Remus answered lowly. McGonagall nodded sadly. "Professor- if there's anything I can do, please, don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you, Remus," she sighed. "You have no idea how grateful I am that you're here. I just… it breaks my heart, that it was her. It shouldn't have to be anyone, but especially not Miss Brown. The poor girl must be terrified..." She bit her lip, and he thought he saw tears brim again in her old eyes. Remus fell silent, uncertain whether he could trust himself to speak through the lump in his throat.

Outside, they heard the clock-tower strike quarter past. "Well, I mustn't keep you," McGonagall sighed. "I'm sure Dora is waiting. Do have a good evening."

"You as well, Professor." He waited until she'd slipped back inside the classroom to rejoin the party, before he in took to walking the corridors alone. The moonlight fell in pale, silvery shafts through the arched windows, and his mind became lost in thought.

 _"It shouldn't have to be anyone, but especially not Miss Brown,"_ McGonagall's words echoed in his mind. And though it sounded strange to say it, he understood. The giggling, somewhat shallow girl did not seem the sort to be able to bear years of agonizing transformations and the constant possibility of one day doing something genuinely monstrous.

 _And were you?_ a voice whispered in the back of his mind.

He considered it. _I was quiet. I was studious. I was used to being strange, being alone._

 _And would you have still been so quiet, so studious- as you put it, so strange and alone- if you hadn't been what you are?_

A moment's fleeting thought crossed his mind- an image of a teenage boy playing with a snitch, slacking off his schoolwork, tousling his hair- and it wasn't James Potter, but himself. Incredibly ordinary and a little immature. A boy who didn't spend hours agonizing over his essays in the library because it was easier than forcing conversation with his classmates after almost a decade of solitude. A boy who played Quidditch because the moon-sickness didn't interfere with his practices. A boy who flirted and broke hearts.

A boy who didn't turn into a raging beast every month.

He realized, suddenly, that his feet had stopped walking of their own accord, and looked up to find he had unknowingly arrived at the door to his apartment. He removed the key from his pocket, turned it three times and murmured- what was it?- oh yes, _"Fiddlestick flounces,"_ before the lock opened with a _click,_ and he stepped inside.

The room had been cast into warm, flickering shadows in a faint reddish-gold light; it seemed that Dora had lit the fireplace. As he stepped inside, he realized that his wife was actually asleep on the couch, their son resting in her arms. _She must have sat down for a moment and fallen asleep,_ he reasoned, sitting down on the couch beside her with a loving smile.

She looked so perfect, in the wash of the gold firelight, peaceful and content. This was the look he liked best on her- her natural dark hair falling in waves around her face, her almond-shaped eyes and rounded nose, her striking Black features like the delicately sharp angles of a faerie's portrait, far from the thin, stiff beauty of Narcissa Malfoy or- he shuddered- her gaunt-faced aunt Bellatrix. Dora, like her mother Andromeda and her cousin Sirius before her, was proof of all that a member of the Ancient House of Black should and ought to be- the redemption of a long dynasty of darkness, who discarded the harsh pure-blood supremacy and evil means used to achieve it, while retaining all that pride, courage, and self-sacrificing devotion of a soul with a cause. Add to that the warmth and generosity of the line of Edward Tonks, and one could not have asked for a better auror, wife, or mother.

And then Teddy. Perfect, beautiful Teddy. He looked down to his son, who was breathing softly, shallowly, mouth slightly open with his cherubic in-turned infant lips. His hair had returned to brown, lighter than his mother's but darker than his father's, and his nose was round and button-like, somewhat reminiscent of a very small mushroom. Remus smiled again, this time very fondly, and sighed with contentment. _His_ son, his own flesh and blood and bone. Whenever he began to doubt whether he was really just a man with a disease, rather than the shell-like host of some wicked beast, he thought to Teddy. Surely, surely nothing as beautiful and precious as his son, who had inherited the same condition, tragic though that may be, could be evil. No, if Teddy were indeed an innocent child, then he was surely just a man, a man worthy and deserving of what beauty life had chosen to give him.

Realizing he'd been staring for far too long, he chuckled softly to himself and stood. Carefully, he reached down and took Teddy into his arms.

Dora stirred and opened her big, brown eyes. He loved those eyes. "Wha…?" she murmured, confused.

"Shh. It's just me," Remus said softly, "I'm putting Teddy to bed. You just rest."

She sighed and closed her eyes, a small smile curling the corners of her lips. Humming softly, he carried Teddy into the nursery and placed him in the rocking bassinet. "Goodnight, my little pup," he whispered, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "Papa loves you very much."

Dora was fast asleep again by the time he returned to the living room. Smiling, he reached down and lifted her up bridal-style, letting her head fall sleepily against his shoulders. With all the tenderness of a loving husband, he carried her to their bedroom, set her down gently on the bed, and pulled the covers over her. Then, not bothering to change, he slipped off his shoes and crawled in beside her. "I love you," Dora murmured in the darkness.

He smiled and touched her face, kissing her gently. "And I love you," he whispered, closing his eyes.

For a brief second, his mind thought back to its preoccupation before he'd unlocked the door: the Quidditch-playing boy who procrastinated on his homework and dated all the prettiest girls in school. The boy who looked like Remus but acted an awful lot like two other Marauders he'd once known.

With a smile, he dismissed the image, a sense of contentment filling his soul. He was who he was; and life had, in the end, turned out alright, turned out for the better. He had a beloved wife and child, a promising career, a home, a family, a future-

And, he decided quietly, a student to counsel in the same direction, and prove that life didn't end with the bite.

With that thought in mind, he reached across the distance and found Dora's hand under the sheets, lacing his fingers through hers. He loved his life. And right in that moment, he couldn't have wished for it to be any other way.

* * *

 **A/N: So, whatja think? Please review (it makes me smile)! :)  
**

 **Anyways, hope you all have a good week, and I'll see you next Tuesday! Pax et bonum! -FFcrazy15**


	5. Chapter 5: The Hogwarts Express

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here. I would also like to formally thank Ms. Rowling for allowing respectable fan writers, such as myself, to post derivative works such as this, and invite her to have tea at my place anytime she likes.

 **Warnings: brief mentions of self-harm. Also, Fred. :(  
**

* * *

"Up. _UP!"_

Harry Potter groaned and rolled over in his bed, pulling his pillow over the top of his ears.

"I can't believe none of you are out of bed yet! Goodness gracious, it's almost eight! The train leaves in three hours!" Molly was clearly in a fright, dashing to and fro about Ron's room. "Are you packed? I do hope so, for goodness' sake, Merlin knows how you managed to survive living in a _tent_ for a year if you can't even get yourselves up on time to catch a train!"

"Are they not up yet?" That was Hermione, standing in the doorway and already dressed in her uniform skirt and sweater, tying her red-and-gold striped tie around her neck.

 _"No,_ they're not up yet! Three hours! We've got to eat and finish packing and get to the station- Ronald Weasely! Your books aren't even out of their bags yet! Ooh, seventeen _years_ of getting you lot up for the first day, and you'd think once, just _once,_ we could catch the train without being in a rush!"

By this point, Ron was yawning and clambering out of bed; all the Weasely children knew that when Molly took that tone, it was time to follow orders. "C'mon, mate," he mumbled to Harry, "before she hexes us. Come _on."_ He pulled the sleeping wizard up by the arm and handed him his glasses.

"What, are you two still asleep?"

Harry blinked through his glasses and flushed to see a certain redheaded witch leaning with a smile against the doorpost, likewise clad in her uniform, pale arms crossed in front of her crisp white blouse and a smirk on her freckle-flecked face. He grinned despite himself to see the little glint of gold off the band around her fourth finger. "We're getting up," he said tiredly, running a hand through his dark hair.

"Well you'd better get a move on; Mum's in a right state. Need a hand?"

He grinned and accepted it, taking her slender, pale palm in his larger own. Ginny pulled him to his feet with surprising strength and grinned up at him, linking her hands around his neck. Harry grinned back, his hands on her waist.

"Merlin's beard, you two, could you not act like that first thing in the morning?" Ron groaned.

"Jealous?" Ginny teased, glancing over.

"You're seventeen. You shouldn't be engaged so soon!"

"I'll be eighteen by the time of the wedding; really, Ronald, you act like I'm still some silly little twelve year old."

"And you," Ron scowled at Harry, "you're s'posed to be my best mate, aren't you? Marrying my sister!"

"You know you love us," Harry chuckled.

"Yeah, yeah. But I don't need to be reminded of it every fifteen effing seconds," he grumbled, stalking out of the room to the bathroom down the hall.

Harry sighed. "Still not comfortable with it, I guess."

"He'll be fine," Ginny said dismissively, "He's actually really pleased with the idea; he just wasn't expecting it to be so soon. Come July, he'll be glowing with pride."

"Hmm." The bespectacled eighteen-year-old leaned forward and pecked his fiance on the lips. Ginny grinned and kissed him back.

"Mer'in's- _ge' a 'oom!"_ Ron bellowed from the bathroom, toothbrush stuck in his mouth.

* * *

"Alright, everyone, you know how this goes," Molly said briskly, shrugging on her coat. They were standing at the foot of the Burrow's hill, dressed in uniform with trunk-latches in hand (all except Hermione, who was carrying a small beaded bag and looking remarkably pleased with herself). Arthur had wanted to see them off, as well, but had been called into the office on some sort of emergency. "Once we get to King's Cross, you do not talk to _anyone_ in a robe, _especially_ not if they have a quill or a camera. Harry, Ginny, keep your hands in your pockets, if they catch sight of those rings we're all in for it, it's been enough work fending them off from the house- is everyone ready? Good. On three then; one- two- three!"

Harry closed his eyes and turned; for a brief second there was nothing, and the grayish darkness seemed to rush past his ears like a steady wind, before his feet hit solid pavement, and he opened his eyes.

They were standing in a small alleyway behind a dumpster in London; Molly straightened her hat primly. "Alright, you lot; we're taking the metro, so you'd best not say anything strange in front of the Muggles. Last thing we need is to break the Statute of Secrecy…"

They trudged after her, trunks rattling behind them. Harry thought forlornly that once, a small cage would have been held in the other hand, but shook off the grief. There had been grief enough for several months; between the funerals for their friends who had passed, and the members of the Order, and _Fred-_

He glanced over to Ron, who was blinking hard, cheeks a little red. Harry knew that he couldn't have been the only one thinking about the lost twin. "Hey," he murmured, and the ginger glanced over. "He would've been proud of you," Harry said quietly. "'Fact, I bet he is, wherever he is."

Ron managed a smile. "You think so?"

"I know so."

Ron glanced around to the rest of his family, as if not wanting to upset them, and then said lowly, "And- and you're sure there's really something up there? You're sure it wasn't all just in your head?"

Harry quirked a small, ironic smile. "Of course it was all in my head. Why should that mean it wasn't real?" At Ron's confused look, he reached out and clapped his friend's shoulder sympathetically. "Trust me, I'm sure."

Ron nodded, smiled again sadly. "Thanks, mate."

They made it through the metro ride without anyone mentioning anything stranger than a bit of charms homework (which earned them a few strange glances but not an overdue amount of attention), before getting off and walking the last few blocks to King's Cross. Harry couldn't help but smile at the sight of the station, though his happiness was tinged with melancholy; it was his seventh year, his last spent in the castle he had called "home" for so long… the best seven years of his life, however much hardship they may have held…

The station was crowded with an inordinate amount of students hauling trunks, mice, cats, toads, and broomstick-shaped cases; thankfully, term was starting for the muggle boarding schools the day after next, so even the ordinary platforms were filled with teenagers in uniform, waiting with their suitcases and bags. Two young men were kicking a football back and forth. Not for the first time, Harry couldn't help but notice the similarities between the two worlds, rarely meeting except in strange halfway-places like this, links between the wizard and muggle existences. _Do you know that our war brushed against your doorstep,_ thought the wizards passing by, _do you realize how close you were to finding out who and what we are? Do you know what we've sacrificed for you?_

They didn't, thought Harry, and that, perhaps, was all for the better. No reason to cause a panic among the lives of ordinary, happy folk. No reason at all.

The barrier between platform nine and ten was congested; how the muggles didn't see all the students casually disappearing into the brick, Harry would never know- some sort of charm, he supposed, though it had never been explained to him. He saw a young girl, no older than eleven, staring at it with obvious trepidation, a white cat sitting atop her trunk. "Hey," Harry said, stopping beside her with a kindly smile, "you need help getting onto the platform?"

The girl looked up at him, startled; she glanced back and forth, and then whispered, "Are you a wizard?"

Clearly she was muggle-born; she didn't seem to have any idea who he was. "Yeah, I am," Harry agreed, kneeling down. "What's your name?"

"Mary," she answered timidly, "Mary O'Donnell. M-my parents dropped me off, I said I could find my way, but now…" She bit her lip, tears filling her eyes. "I don't want to miss the train…"

"You won't; I'll help you," he reassured her. "My name's Harry; I'm going to school, too. You're trying to get to nine and three-quarters, right?" She nodded, looking very small and afraid. "It's not hard. All you have to do is push your cart straight at the bricks. I promise, you won't hit them; it's magic. You'll pass right through."

"You're sure?" the girl said dubiously.

"I'm sure. You can watch my friends go first, if you're nervous."

She nodded. "I'd like that."

Harry looked to Ron, who grinned. "Watch how it's done, kid." He grabbed hold of his trunk- and ran straight for the barrier. A moment later, the bricks swallowed him up.

"See?" Harry said kindly. "Nothing to it."

"Oh." She bit her lip, squinted at the barrier, and then took a deep breath. A moment later, she was off and running. Harry grinned as she vanished from view, and then followed after. There was darkness for a moment, and then bright sunlight, and the sign reading, _Platform 9 ¾,_ just above him.

Mary looked back at him, eyes lighting up. "I did it!" she exclaimed.

"Good job," Harry said, smiling. "Now all you have to do is get on the train; it'll bring you to Hogwarts. When you get there, a giant named Hagrid will bring you to the castle."

Her eyes went wide. "A _giant?"_ she whispered.

"Well, half-giant," Ron corrected, pushing his cart over, "but he's friendly, believe me. He's a professor there; you'll like him."

"Not to mention the other teachers," added Hermione, who'd come up behind them, Ginny at her side. "Headmistress McGonagall- she's a brilliant witch, but you'd best not cross her-"

"Aw c'mon, everyone crosses McGonagall at some point. Filch is the one you have to worry about- or Binns, he's the most boring teacher there-"

"Ron, that's not nice to say!"

"Who's Binns?" Mary asked innocently.

"The history prof- he's a ghost, you'll know him when you meet him."

"A ghost!"

"Yeah, but he's not scary at all. _Trust_ us," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "Oh, and Professor Lupin, he's fantastic."

"He's teaching all seven classes, isn't he?" Ginny mentioned, as they started moving towards the train. "That's bound to be difficult."

"Why?" said Mary, surprised.

"His wife just had a baby," Hermione explained idly, "plus he has to take every full moon off- oh, right, you wouldn't know. Professor Lupin is a werewolf."

The girl stopped dead, her cart jerking backwards. "He's a _what?"_

"Oh, don't worry about that- he's the nicest man you'll ever meet," Hermione reassured her. "He's a very good friend of ours, actually; you'll like him a lot."

"But if he's a-"

"Only during the full moon; besides, he takes a potion to keep him tame. He's really quite harmless."

"Is he from Slytherin?" Mary asked curiously.

They all blinked, surprised. "No, he was in Gryffindor, like us," Ginny replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Well- that's where all the dark wizards come from, isn't it?"

The four glanced at each other; Harry decided he'd handle this one. "Mary," he said seriously, kneeling down again to look her in the eye, "I don't know where you've been getting your information, but I think you have a few misconceptions." She blinked, startled. "It's not your fault- a lot of people have them- but someone should tell you better before you go to school."

"Okay…?"

"First off: being a werewolf does not at all make someone a dark wizard. You'll understand once you meet Professor Lupin; he's a great man. Second: Slytherin house… it's got a bad reputation, I won't deny it, but that's just because of a few people, not everyone that comes out of it. One of the most courageous men I ever knew was from Slytherin."

"Really?"

"Really. I won't lie to you: originally, the house ideals were all about being a pureblood- that's a family that's all wizard, no muggle-borns, like yourself." The girl dropped her eyes. _"But,"_ Harry continued, "that doesn't mean that it has to keep being that way. A lot of what Slytherin house is about has to do with- with ambition, and using your opportunities- being a leader, if you will."

"Oh." She considered this. "Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, to get sorted there…"

"You seem like a nice young lady. No matter which house you get sorted into, they'll be lucky to have you."

She grinned. "Okay." She suddenly saw a number of other first-years, all huddled around with their parents, and gasped. "Oh, look!" She glanced back at them. "Do you mind…?"

"No, no, go on!" Hermione urged. Mary waved goodbye, and then hurried over to the rest of her class. The four grinned to watch her, each remembering their own first day, excitedly- and nervously- waiting for the year to begin.

"There you lot are!" They turned as Molly bustled up to them, looking a bit flustered. "I got caught behind; group of Muggles all passing in front of the barrier- well look, it's quarter-to; you'd best be… getting on the train…" She suddenly seemed to get a lump in her throat.

"Mum, it's okay," Ginny said gently.

"Oh- I know- I just-" She bit her lip hard, tears welling in her eyes. "I'm just… so proud of all of you," she said hoarsely, and then gave them each a tight, motherly hug in turn. "Be good. Write home. Say hi to George for me, and Lupin, and Minerva-"

"You just saw them last week!" Ron grunted, struggling for air.

"I know, but- oh- all of you, be _safe!"_ She exclaimed this last one as she pulled Harry into a hug, and he laughed.

"Mrs. Weasely- it's fine- trust me, Riddle's not about to come looking for me this time!"

"I know, I just- oh, I just worry about you, all of you." She hugged Hermione. "You'll understand when you're parents." Her voice suddenly broke. "Oh, Ginny- Harry-" She flung her arms around her youngest again. "I can't believe it. I just can't believe it."

"Mum- Mum, we've got to go-" Ron stammered helplessly as Ginny made a vague choking sound.

"And you too!" She hugged Ron fiercely, kissing his cheek. "And don't you dare get involved in any more trouble!"

After several more tearful hugs and kisses, she let them go, waving goodbye as they made their way to the steaming scarlet engine. As the attendant helped them lift their bags on the train, a voice behind them called, "Harry Potter!"

All four turned. And groaned.

A head of blonde curls above an acid-green woman's business suit and a pair of winged glasses seemed to cut through the crowd. "Hurry," Harry muttered to the attendant, clambering up the latter.

"Is that a _ring_ I see, Potter?" Rita Skeeter exclaimed, her quick-quotes-quill scribbling madly. He glanced to the hand holding the bar, and realized, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that it was his left.

"Class ring," he said quickly, "Come _on,_ Ron-"

"Class ring made of solid gold?" the reporter said knowingly. "Come now, Harry, who's the lucky lady?"

"No comment."

"Really, Harry, you've caught the interest of the whole wizarding world!"

"Well, they can find some new celebrity to obsess over," he snapped, stepping on board the train. "C'mon, Hermione, Ginny, let's go-"

"One of these two, perhaps? I remember Miss Granger was quite _fond_ of you during the Tournament-"

"You foul woman-" Hermione began, but she was cut off by Ginny's irritable, "Oh, bugger off before I hex you!"

Rita glanced between them; it was a second later that Ginny hastily shoved her hands in her pockets, but it was a second too late- Skeeter had seen the ring. _"Ah-ha!"_ she exclaimed. "The best mate's sister!"

"Oy," Ron groaned. "C'mon, Gin, up you get." He hauled his sister aboard the train and then pulled Hermione's trunk up after her, offering his hand to the bushy-haired witch. "Go write a biography or something, Skeeter- and stop _bugging_ my friend!"

The blonde witch scowled at the reference. Harry hurried to move along, but before he could get completely out of sight, he heard the distinct _snap!_ of a camera.

"Well, looks like we'll be all over the front page tomorrow," Ginny sighed, hauling her trunk down the corridor after him. "C'mon, let's find a compartment- oh, hello Neville, Luna!"

"Hey!" Neville called, raising a hand. He and Luna seemed to have gotten a six-seater to themselves. "You looking for a compartment?"

"Yeah, can we sit with you?"

"Sure. Did Skeeter get you, too?"

"Like a blonde crocodile," Ron grumbled. "My sister's engagement is about to become the next news sensation."

"Your sister's- oh!" Neville had just noticed the rings on both Harry's and Ginny's fourth fingers; he quickly congratulated them, pumping their hands enthusiastically. "That's wonderful! Just wonderful! Well done, Harry!"

"Well, I had the easy part; she was the one who had to agreed to a lifetime of me," Harry chuckled. Ginny grinned and took his hand in hers.

Harry loved seeing her so happy; after the loss of her brother, she'd become far quieter by nature, and very often woke up crying in the middle of the night, not that she told anyone but him. On more than one occasion over the summer, she'd come gotten him up in the dark of the morning, and they'd had a cup of tea and talked about Fred for hours. Not for the first time, Harry was glad that the Weasely twin had been such an enthusiastic prankster; talking about the losses of the War was a sorrowful thing, but at least in the conversations about Fred, there was always much laughter with the tears.

"Well come on, sit down; can you believe it? Our last year at Hogwarts!" Neville said, laughing. "For real, I mean, not that rubbish we had to put up with last year."

"Didn't you want to test out?" Hermione inquired, taking a seat beside Luna.

"I considered it, but you need to complete your NEWTs to teach. That's what I'm looking at, by the way; I've been writing McGonagall, you see, and she says that Professor Sprout's looking to retire in a year or two. If I do well this year, she said she'll give me first consideration for the position."

"Neville, that's wonderful!" Hermione exclaimed. "Oh, you'll do so well!"

"Thanks to you," he said gratefully. "I dunno how I would've survived school without your help, Hermione."

"Oh, rubbish- you would've done just fine-"

"And rubbish back on you! You think I would've passed potions without you?" They all laughed at that, remembering how poorly the stuttering, nervous boy had done in the class for years. "I'll pay you back for it someday, watch and see," Neville promised.

The train ride went along quite pleasantly after that; Luna and Neville seemed happy as could be, and as it turned out, Luna was intending to study to become a naturalist ("Perhaps I'll even find the Crumple-Horned Snorkack!"), meaning she and Hermione would have similar NEWT requirements. The trolley witch came through about half an hour in, and everyone pitched in what they could to buy a little candy. After about an hour, Hermione and Ron- who'd been appointed Head Boy and Girl over the summer- got up to do their rounds, and then returned soon after.

The sun was just beginning to set when Harry realized his feet were falling asleep, stiff with pins and needles. "I think I'll take a walk around," he announced, stretching. "Be back in a bit."

The train corridor was largely empty; Harry walked down to one end, spoke a little to the trolley witch, and then turned again. As he did so, someone came out of the first compartment, shutting the door behind him and turning around.

Harry stopped dead. So did Malfoy. They stared at each other for a long second. Harry noticed, strangely, that Malfoy looked rather unwell- his face was gaunt, and there were dark circles under his eyes and a general weariness to his way of standing, as if he hadn't gotten much sleep at all in quite some time.

Quickly, the blond dropped his gaze. "Sorry," he muttered, brushing past. He retreated to the end of the car and quickly slipped through the door, shutting it sharply behind him.

"Poor fellow," the trolley witch commented sympathetically, "I don't think he's well at all."

"Isn't he? What's wrong with him?" Harry asked, curious despite himself.

"Couldn't say. But this is the third time he's gone to the back; I think he said once he wanted some fresh air. I do hope he's alright."

"Yeah," Harry echoed, "Yeah, I'm sure he'll be fine…"

He returned to his compartment, where Luna and Hermione were playing a game of wizard chess, and sat down, his thoughts whirling.

"Hey, mate? You've gone quiet; you alright?"

He glanced over. Ron was looking at him curiously.

"Yeah," he said, shaking his head as if to get rid of an annoying fly. "Yeah, I'm fine." He looked out the window; was he imagining it, or was there a figure standing on the gated deck at the end of the train as it rounded the bend?

"Fine," he repeated, convincing himself it was just his imagination.

* * *

Draco Malfoy took a deep breath of the cold, rushing air and tried not to throw up.

The night was clear and starry; large, silver-lit Scottish moors in the light of the near-full moon flew past as the train rattled over the tracks. The numbing cold felt good, far better than the unbearable heat of the car he'd been sharing with Zabini, Goyle, Pansy and Millicent.

Maybe he could just stay back here. Maybe he wouldn't have to go back and listen to that- that revolting- that disgusting-

He took a sharp breath in through his nose, nausea turning in his stomach.

The truth was, he shouldn't have been shocked. How often had he himself said spoken such filth before, and with such confidence? But it was different now. It _felt_ different now. Now, having seen so many people die… so many people suffer…

For a brief second, he wished bitterly that he were in Azkaban, where he belonged, but he and the other students had been pardoned due to their youth- under, with an irony that made him burn hot with shame, the impassioned pleading of newly-appointed Headmistress McGonagall's testimony before the Ministry. _"They're students,"_ she'd said, _"And hardly more than children, at that. How many of them were impressionable minors when Riddle came to power? How many of them were cajoled into it by their families? Keep them under probation if you wish, Kingsley, but at least give them the benefit of the doubt."_

Malfoy felt ill, thinking back to it. Impressionable minor? Certainly. Cajoled into it by his family? Undoubtedly. But still, he hated her pity, hated how she still looked at him like a foolish child who hadn't known any better, like he wasn't a torturer and a would-be murderer, with more blood on his hands than he liked to remember.

In his more honest moments, he supposed that it was not truly the Headmistress he hated, but himself.

With a shuddering sigh, he pulled up the sleeve of his robes. The skull and snake leered back at him, and he swallowed thickly. Tried as he might, the tattoo had refused to come off. He'd attacked it one night with muttered _scourgifys_ , trying- ridiculously, he realized now- to scrub it off. Another desperate attempt had ended with him nearly killing himself by accident- cutting off the mark with a badly-misplaced _sectumsempra_ had not, admittedly, been among his most intelligent ideas, but he'd been half out of his mind with self-loathing and disgust. He'd even sneaked out one night to a muggle clinic of some sort and had had them remove it, but to his horror, it had reappeared the next morning, as if the curse were burnt into his very blood.

He realized his cheeks were wet. Embarrassed, he mopped them with his sleeve, muttering to himself. He should have been pleased. He was getting away from that cursed manor for another year, heading to the one place he'd always, in his mind, called _home._

But was Hogwarts really his home anymore?

He had no doubt of what he would find there. Certainly, it was no secret to him that most of his class (and likely most of the school) had never been his biggest fans- but he'd always had his small, close-knit group of friends, people who looked up to him as something of a leader. In years gone by, it had made him feel like some sort of prince.

Now it just made him feel sick.

He was a Death Eater. There was no getting around that. The tattoo alone was sufficient proof of who he had been: a supporter of the most foul dark wizard to have ever terrorized Great Britain. At first, it had been fun, when Riddle came to power. Back when everyone thought Potter was crazy. Back when he knew he wasn't, and was smug in the fact that soon, the world would all be set right. No more filthy mudbloods and half-breeds and blood-traitors, like the Weaselys. No more Potter, either. That would be nice.

Then, after the battle in the Department of Mysteries, everything had changed. It wasn't a game anymore. His father had failed, and he, Draco, was punished. He was given an impossible task, to do what no wizard had ever managed to do before. To do what even Tom Riddle himself was afraid to do: kill Albus Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard of the age. Or Draco, and his parents, would pay for it with their own lives.

That year had been a living hell. His grades had suffered horrendously. His health had deteriorated to the point where he was hardly sleeping, hardly eating, desperate to find some way of fixing the cabinet...

And he had. He'd managed the impossible, and his family had been spared.

And then last year… He swallowed harsh, but the tears still burned, and he closed his eyes tight. He could still see Professor Burbage's wet, pleading eyes. Could still _hear_ Thorfinn's screams ringing in his ears, begging him to stop. And he hadn't. He hadn't stopped any of it, too terrified of becoming the next example.

 _Weasely was right,_ he thought bitterly. _I'm a coward._

This last summer had been the worst. Everything he'd known and believed had been shattered that night… the last flew traces of hope he'd had in the world order of his parents had been destroyed, leaving him scared and sick with guilt. But his parents hadn't seen it so, or at least, his father hadn't. Though his parents had been spared Azkaban, largely on account of Narcissa's sudden shift in allegiance at the end of the battle, her husband was not supportive of the new order. Lucius had been adamantly insistent that life would continue on as always, that someone would eventually set the world aright again, that these "filth" could not really have won…

And Draco had barely had the courage to remain silent.

He couldn't go back to that house. Wouldn't. But where was there to go, after graduation? Who would ever hire a former Death Eater? He'd be on the streets, working odd jobs just to make ends meet. He'd be lucky to get work as an effing _bartender,_ after what Riddle had done. He didn't know how to be poor. He sure didn't know how to handle growing a conscience, either.

Slowly, weakly, he sank to the floor of the deck and curled up against the bars of the gate-rail, pulling his knees in close and listening to the powerful thunder of the train wheels beneath him. The tears ran down his face, and he didn't stop them. He had nothing. He _was_ nothing: just the shell of a boy whose childhood had come to a very abrupt and ugly end, the hollow husk of a man who had done things with these very hands that would give any sane person nightmares. Who did he think he was, pretending he could walk among normal students, like he wasn't the most detestable of creatures? Like he wasn't a _monster?_

He didn't know how long he sobbed there, the wheels thundering beneath him, the cold night air freezing his pale face numb. At last, he looked up as the train rounded a bend at the foot of a mountain. The silver-lit moors were gone, replaced by thick Scottish forests. Ahead of him, he saw a small, cheerily-lit village… and then, as they came around another corner, the castle came into view.

Hogwarts was lit from base to tower, every window blazing with golden light, reflecting on the waters of the loch like a thousand glowing torches. A sense of strange calm settled in his heart. Hogwarts, his school, his home. The only real home he'd ever known.

He sighed, low and weary, and pulled himself to his feet. One year. One last year of some form of certainty, of protection, before he was thrust out into the world and expected to make his way, knowing what he was. Well, he'd take it, with all the gratitude of a man without any other choice.

The train pulled to a stop at the Hogsmead station; he shuffled back into the train, ignoring the muttered curses and bustle of students retrieving their trunks and cages, and returned to the compartment where his friends still sat.

"Oy, Malfoy!" Zabini called, as he walked inside and reached for his trunk "Where'd you go?"

"Felt ill. Needed some air," he muttered, and left without another word. He climbed into a chariot with some third-years, who looked at him curiously but at least didn't try to make conversation with the surly young man. After what seemed like an eternity, the carries stopped in front of the castle, and everyone clambered out, leaving their luggage on the carts.

Despite his will, his spirits lifted considerably as he walked into the Great Hall, which was lit up with hundreds of glowing candles, prepared for the nearly three hundred students who annually graced its halls. Draco took his seat at the end of the Slytherin table and felt just the beginnings of a small half-smile touch his gaunt face, to look around at all the gathered students and teachers, ready for the beginning of a new year. The feast was about to begin.

* * *

 **A/N: Hello again everyone! Hope you liked the chapter, please review; it does make me happy. :)  
**

 **As is my wont, I will be taking nine days off from my writing to renew my Marian Consecration (it's a Catholic thing which requires a sort of small sacrifice of personal pleasures to complete), which means I will not be writing the next chapter for a little more than a week, setting the next update not the coming Tuesday, but the Tuesday after that. Sorry 'bout that.**

 **Like I said, please R &R! Pax et bonum to you all!**

 **-FFcrazy15**


	6. Chapter 6: The Hat and the Cup

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here.

 **Warnings: none.**

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE: First off, I am so, SO SORRY for not updating in over a month! There was Finals Week and then Christmas Break, and a huge case of writer's block. BUT on the bright side, I've got basically the rest of the story planned out, so this should be easy going from now on!**

 **Secondly, while this story will DEFINITELY remain Remadora and feature that pairing specifically, the story will also be following the lives of several main characters, specifically during the year after the war. In that sense, this is an "8** **th** **Year" fic, although the lives of the characters will be drastically altered by the Lupins' survival. (Most canon pairings will apply except for Luna/Neville and the aforementioned surprise pairing). Hope you all enjoy this next chapter; it's not one of my best, but it's important nonetheless! Pax et bonum!**

* * *

The entirety of the Great Hall fell silent as there came a loud, booming knock upon the front oak doors. Harry Potter shivered slightly at the sound; it had been eight years since he had heard that thundering sound, and for a moment he thought back to that fateful instant in the tiny island shack, surrounded by the stormy British sea, the precise second when he had turned eleven and his entire life had changed.

Then he was eighteen again, sitting in the Great Hall, and Professor McGonagall had risen from her Headmistress's chair at the staff table and was walking purposefully to the great front doors. With a wave of her wand, they creaked open, and the golden light of the hall streamed out into the black night, illuminating the faces of perhaps thirty frightened-looking first years, regarding whom it seemed the new headmistress had forgone the tradition of ushering into the Hall's antechamber prior to the Sorting.

"Welcome," she said, and though her voice was of an ordinary volume, it seemed to carry throughout the ranks of upperclassmen and teachers alike. "Please, come inside; the Sorting will begin momentarily."

The crowd of eleven-year-olds shuffled in nervously and seemed to pale upon realizing that everyone was staring at them. Hagrid stood behind them protectively (although some of the children looked as if the very large, wild man's presence was not exactly comforting), and Harry saw him glance up and wink at the bespectacled wizard. Harry grinned and nodded back.

"You see here before you the four Hogwarts houses," McGonagall informed them brusquely. "Each of them has its own valuable characteristics, ancient history, and great wizards to its name. In order, they are: Gryffindor!" She nodded to the first table, which was draped in red, and, each immediately understanding, the entirety of the house stood to its feet. "Dedicated to courage and fortitude in the face of danger- my old house," she added, with a hint of pride. "Ravenclaw!" The blue-swathed tables' occupants rose in unison. "Devoted to wisdom and the pursuit of truth. Hufflepuff!" The yellow-tied students stood, many smiling and waving cheerfully at the new students. "Pledged to honesty, loyalty, and good, hard work. Slytherin!" The last wave of students rose, some with a tad of uncertainty, but many with pride. "Committed to leadership, resourcefulness, and the ambitious pursuit of the common good." She turned again to the newcomers and added, "I imagine that not many of you are feeling particularly brave, wise, loyal or resourceful at the moment, but never fear: the Sorting Hat will assess you and sort you correctly.

"While you are at Hogwarts, your house will be like your family. You will study together, attend classes together, and live in the same dormitory. Each of the houses has its own honorable qualities, but take heed: courage can disintegrate into arrogance. The pursuit of truth can fall into dangerous curiosities. Loyalty can become blind obedience, and ambition can be warped from a devotion to the common good to an obsessive need for power or personal glory. No house alone can make a school, and no characteristic or quality alone, save the relentless quest for true virtue and genuine self-sacrifice, can build a peaceful society. The houses must stand together, in unity, or we will fall to ruin." She eyed the somewhat dazed children, and then offered a small smile. "Lofty words for those so young, I know. But I hope in time, you will come to understand and embrace them."

With this, she turned and gave a short nod. From the staff table came Fillius Flitwick, carrying the stool and old Sorting Hat in his arms. He set down the first and handed the second to Professor McGonagall, who thanked him kindly, and then retreated again to the table.

"Blimey," Ron murmured under his breath. "Expanded her speech a bit, hasn't she?"

"I'm not surprised, considering what happened last year," Hermione whispered back. "She's right, of course; the first step to really rebuilding the school is unifying the Houses." But here they all fell quiet, for McGonagall had placed the Hat with reverence upon the stool, and the whole hall waited patiently for the song to begin.

After a long silence, the Hat's brim opened (to the surprised gasps of several muggle-born first-years), and the old Hat- stained with soot and looking very tired indeed- began to sing, in a voice much quieter than in anyone's memory.

" _Three years have passed since last I warned_

 _Of dangers dark and vast._

 _And as the darkness's servant lies cold and still,_

 _You think the danger's past._

 _Yet wizards are a fickle lot;_

 _–We all know this to be true–_

 _I've seen darkness fill many a day_

 _Long 'fore each of you were you."_

A chill had settled over the hall. Peacetime had just begun again! Could the Hat truly be warning of some future trouble so soon?

" _I was here when Grindelwald took power_

 _And watched the darkness rise._

 _Here sat I while the Dark One grew,_

 _And looked to Britain with hateful eyes._

 _Through ages long and ages past,_

 _I watched darkness rise and fall,_

 _First in this form, then in that,_

 _Cruel and selfish, one and all._

 _I am no seer, yet I see things clear,_

 _So let me make it plain:_

 _Each man's evil differs not in kind,_

 _But in degree and name."_

There was a pause here, and everyone wondered if the Hat were finished despite the brevity of its song, but after a moment, it seemed to straighten up and continued in a more brusque manner:

" _Now, I've had it from my pointed top_

 _Down to my fraying brim_

 _With bickering among you_

 _Of which house is best be in._

" _Not Hufflepuff!" you cry, as though_

 _Loyalty were a curse._

 _Or "To Slytherin!" say so many,_

" _I'll accept nothing worse!"_

 _And often I've accommodated-_

 _For who knows you better than you?_

 _But I think that this may have been my fault_

 _Not to sort you true._

 _You've all seen now what division's wrought_

 _Upon your people and your homes_

 _So hear me now: I only divide_

 _So you might stand united, whole._

 _Wizards: pure-blood, half, and born_

 _Of non-magicked parents, alike!_

 _Stand together, as your school!_

 _Or risk bringing further strife!_

 _There are differences among you,_

 _And this I shan't deny,_

 _But let no distinction, save that of good_

 _Or evil, cause you die!_

 _And remember that wickedness is not found_

 _In one cruel and vile fiend:_

 _Tom Riddle was once a child, too,_

 _No matter what his end._

 _So I'll sort you and I'll sift you,_

 _With the hopes that you shall learn_

 _That courage, leadership, loyalty, wisdom,_

 _Are virtues to be earned!_

 _So hear, children, our future and our hope,_

 _And just bear this in mind:_

 _No matter where I sort you…_

… _You'll sort yourself in kind."_

Here at last the Hat's brim closed shut, and it seemed to be finished with its message. McGonagall nodded and removed a small scroll of parchment from within her sleeve. She unfurled it, scanned it over through her spectacles, and then called out, "Abrams, Bella!"

The Sorting seemed to go far more quickly this year, or perhaps it was simply because there were fewer students (clearly, some parents had been wary about allowing their young children to attend the school where such dangerous fighting had occurred). Harry smiled to see _O'Donnell, Mary,_ sorted into Hufflepuff, and clapped appreciatively for all the new Gryffindors. When _Weller, Agnes,_ had at last made her way over to the Ravenclaw table, the students turned expectantly to their plates, expecting the platters and dishes to magically be laden with the usual Welcome Feast delicacies.

This, however, was not to be: after Professor Flitwick had replaced the Sorting Hat back beside the staff table, McGonagall raised a hand. The excited chatter which had broken out upon the conclusion of the Sorting hushed again.

"…It is simply impossible," McGonagall said, and now her voice was very quiet, though it seemed again to echo throughout the ancient stone hall, "to express enough gratitude for those who defended this school and our world against the darkness and oppression that Tom Riddle sought to wreak upon our people. Many, many of those brave souls who paid that ultimate price walked through these very halls. While it is beyond the capabilities of any living soul, even the survivors of such violence, to pay adequate tribute to their memories, there is one way in which a Headmistress may give honor to the good deeds of her students."

With a wave of her wand, the four House Hourglasses appeared on the dais behind her, as well as a row of sparkling gems, which seemed to be engraved with gold lettering. "Would the following people please come forward: Ronald and Ginerva Weasely; Nymphadora Lupin; Remus Lupin; Dennis Creevy; Susan Bones; Harry Potter…"

Startled, Harry rose to his feet and followed the equally confused Ron and Ginny to the front of the hall. When McGonagall had finished listing off the names, she took a deep breath.

"For their outstanding service to the common good and their courage in the face of death, I call to your attention the late heroes of the First and Second Wizarding Wars, from the respective houses of Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin:

"For the courageous deaths of students and alumni of Gryffindor House, including Professor Albus Dumbledore, alum and staff; Edward Tonks, alum; Alastor Moody, alum; Collin Creevy, 6th…" As she spoke, a pair of house-elves began to distribute the sparkling gems into the hands of the waiting survivors. Harry swallowed harshly as the elf handed him two rubies, each inscribed with his parents' names, as McGonagall recited, "James and Lilly Potter, alum; Mary Gregorson, 6th, Fred Weasely, alum; Marlen McKinnon, alum; Gideon and Fabian Prewett, alum; Delilah Peeks, 6th; Erik Bennet, alum; Sirius Black, alum…" She went down the list, concluding with, "and Sarah MacIntley, 5th, I award Gryffindor House one-thousand points."

A shower of rubies fell into the lower bulb of the Gryffindor Hourglass. Harry glanced to either side and saw Ginny and Ron crying silently, stiff-faced, their hands clutched together around Fred's ruby, and each carrying one of their uncles' at their sides. Remus was holding Sirius's gem in his hands, tears in his own hazel eyes. Harry was pleased to see that the professor was dressed in new but modest dress-robes. Tonks stood beside him, elegant in her black evening gown and hair a respectful dark brown, her father's scarlet ruby clutched tightly in her pale fingers.

"For the courageous deaths of students and alumni of Ravenclaw House, including Professor Septima Vector, alum and staff; Lyall Lupin, alum; Stephen Cornfoot, 7th; Andrew Merchant, alum; Su Li, 7th; Kevin Entwhistle, 7th; Maria Herricks, 6th; Florean Fortescue, alum; Caradoc Dearborne, alum; Bathilda Bagshot, alum…" And so on, "I award Ravenclaw House another thousand points."

It was here that the students began to understand what it was the headmistress was doing, for now the Ravenclaw Hourglass was likewise entirely filled. "For the courageous deaths of students and alumni of Hufflepuff House," she continued, "including Professor Charity Burbage, alum and staff; Dorcas Meadows, alum; Cedric Diggory, 7th; Wayne Hopkins, 7th; Benjy Fenwick, alum; Elisa Waters, 7th; Megan Jones, 7th; Amelia Bones, alum…" Susan took her aunt's engraved diamond with a tearful gasp. "...I award Hufflepuff House one-thousand points." A cascade of diamonds filled the lower bulb.

Here, McGonagall paused. "I am well aware that the details regarding Headmaster Snape are not altogether clear-" At her words, whispers erupted throughout the hall. She waved her wand; a loud noise like a gunshot went off, and everyone hastily quieted. "-but I shall take this opportunity to endeavor to make them so!" she concluded fiercely. "Few of you are aware of the good he did for this school, the efforts he went to to mitigate the worst of the Carrows' reign. I will not say that Professor Snape and I were anything of close companions, but it would be my honor if it should one day be stated I served this position half as well as he did!" At their shocked silence, she took a deep breath and glanced to Harry, who gave her a small nod.

With this, the headmistress launched into the tale of Snape's double-life and his loyalty to Albus Dumbledore, including everything save those details which were most personal to the late headmaster. When at last all had been explained, she concluded, "…Truly he has done honor to Slytherin house, for he matched those qualities which are best found among them, his cunning and his relentless devotion to this school and his predecessor, against Riddle's power, and exercised them so well as to play an instrumental role in his defeat. Therefore, in honor of him, and of the Slytherin students and alumni: Emmeline Vance, alum; Regulus Black, alum-"

Harry was startled to find that a house-elf was handing him Regulus's emerald. "No, you've got the wrong man," he whispered. "I didn't even know him-"

"Professor McGonagall said it was to go to you," the house-elf said stoutly, and pushed the emerald into his hands. Harry, baffled, accepted it and stood up straight again.

McGonagall was still speaking. "-Bertha Jorkins, alum; Tracey Davis, 7th; Theodore Nott, 7th; and June Hall, 6th…" She rolled the list back into a scroll. "I award Slytherin house one-thousand points."

She turned solemnly to the hourglasses, now all of which were fully filled on the bottom and empty on top. "It is with great pride in my students, and great sorrow in my grief, that I award each house equally the honor of the 1997-1998 House Cup… and I offer my deepest gratitude to each and every one of these braves souls, who sacrificed so much for their school, their fellow students, and the common good."

She waved her wand, and countless names began to etch themselves in perfect cursive into the gold surface. "This Cup shall be retired to the trophy room, where it shall have a place of honor to be seen by all who come after us, so that none may ever forget why we train and learn, not only in skills of magic but in building characters of virtue, and may emulate their magnanimity and selflessness."

There was no cheering to follow her speech, only a wordless round of thunderous applause, as every student and staff rose to their feet and paid their homage to the courageous departed.

* * *

When at last the feast was over, Harry, Ron and Hermione all led the way to the Gryffindor common room. As Head Boy and Girl, the two latter had been entrusted with the password, which was, fittingly, _"Courage."_ The Fat Lady gave them a rather tearful salute as her portrait swung aside.

Although everyone was rather tired, the seventh-years all seemed unwilling to turn into their dormitories like the underclassmen. They were a rather quiet lot, and the missing among their numbers was painfully obvious. "I don't want to go up," Ginny said quietly, staring into the fire. "I don't think I could take seeing Lila and Mary's empty beds…"

"Nor Lavender's," Hermione said lowly.

"Her name wasn't listed, was it?" Ron said suddenly. "I didn't hear it, anyway."

"She survived," Parvati said numbly, glancing over from where she was sitting in front of the fire. "She's been in St. Mungo's for the last few months, though… hasn't answered any of my letters, I don't know why."

"At least she isn't, you know…" Hermione trailed off.

Harry didn't speak. Though none of the boys from his year had been lost, he could see Dennis Creevy standing wordlessly at the staircase, turning his brother's ruby over and over in his hands. He looked down to the three small stones in his own, two rubies and an emerald. His parents' he would place among his most treasured possessions, including the Map and his Cloak, but as for Regulus's…

An idea struck him, quite suddenly, and he stood up. "Harry?" Ron said, startled.

His friend paid him no mind. "Kreacher," he said clearly, and was answered a moment later by a slight _pop!_

"Yes, Master Harry?" Kreacher wheezed, bowing low.

"I have something for you." He knelt down in front of the house-elf and held out the emerald in his hands. "It's an award, for Master Regulus's bravery," he said clearly. "I want you to bring it back to Grimmauld Place for me."

Kreacher looked at him, stunned. "Master Harry wants Kreacher to take Master Regulus's award?"

Harry nodded firmly. "And put it in a place of honor, for everyone to see the- the greatness of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. I want you to have it; it belongs to you."

Kreacher, naturally, proceeded to burst into tears. After many reassurances from Harry, he managed to stifle his sobs, bowed profusely to him, and then disappeared with a much louder _crack!_ Harry glanced back to Ron and Hermione, the latter of which was looking at him with shining eyes.

"That was really wonderful of you, Harry," she said thickly, wiping her eyes.

"It was his," Harry replied honestly. "I think that's why McGonagall gave it to me instead of to Lupin, even though he was Sirius's best friend… Kreacher is really the last family Regulus had left."

"Good on you, mate," Ron said, nodding. He'd taken over the three rubies from Ginny, who didn't seem to be paying much attention to anything.

Slowly, the common room emptied out, until it was just the four of them left. The fire had burnt itself down to dimly flickering red coals, and the room was cast into a warm half-darkness. For a long time, they sat in silence, until a low, shuddering breath came from Ginny's direction. Without another thought, Ron pulled his sister into a tight hug as she began to cry onto her brother's shoulder.

"I-I'm sorry," she wept. "I just… I just…"

"I know, Gin," Ron said thickly. "I know."

"I th-thought it was getting easier… b-but then t-t-tonight…" She pulled away and turned to Harry, who embraced her and stroked her hair comfortingly. "I-I d-don't know what to do…"

Ron nodded wordlessly. Hermione took his hands into her own as the ginger wizard blinked hard, tears running down his own face. Again silence reigned, heavy and stifling, broken only by Ginny's occasional sniffle.

"…I remember," Ron said thickly, after a while, "I remember the time he gave me that acid pop… Merlin, was Mum mad…"

Ginny let out a trembling little breath that may have been a laugh and drew away from Harry, wiping at her eyes. "I remember... them flying off into the sunset… oh, Umbridge was _furious,_ the crazy old toad..."

"It was a brilliant bit of spellwork, that swamp," Hermione said fondly, her voice hoarse. "I can't imagine how they did it…"

"Yeah, well, a good magician never reveals his secrets," Harry chuckled. Ron and Ginny gave him an odd look, and he waved his hand, grinning. "It's a muggle phrase."

"I remember the time he replaced all of Mum's tomatoes with dungbombs," Ron said, with a watery grin.

"Hold on, I haven't heard this one," Harry interjected.

"Oh, it was brilliant; we had to order- what's it called? Taking-ins?"

"Takeout?"

"That's it, takeout, all the way from Ottery St. Catchpole. Took the delivery man half an hour to find us."

They continued on with stories like this for what seemed like hours, until everyone had laughed so hard their stomachs hurt. At last, Ron sighed, still smiling slightly, and said, "I remember a lot about him… some bad, but most of it good. He was my brother." He glanced around at the other three, tears brimming again in his eyes despite his smile. "And I think- I think maybe that's the first step, you know? Not to forgetting him- never forgetting him- but… to moving on. I think that's what he would have wanted, you know?"

There was a pause, and then Ginny sighed. "Yeah. I think so." She managed a sad smile, and then stood. "I think I'll turn in. Classes tomorrow, right?"

They all chuckled ironically at the idea that something so normal as morning classes could still exist, and then Harry got to his feet. "I'm with Gin. You two coming up?"

"In a bit," Ron said, though he did look very tired. "I, ah…"

Harry and Ginny shared a look, and nodded in understanding. "Right. See you lot in the morning, then," the younger Weasely said kindly, giving her fiancé a brief kiss, and then climbed the stairs to the girl's dormitory. Harry did the same, locating the extra dormitory marked _7_ _th_ _(Returning),_ and disappearing inside. In the darkness, he could hear the faint, even breathing of Neville, Seamus and Dean, and was glad to find they were all asleep.

As he turned to shut the door, he peeked outside and down the stairs. Ron and Hermione were sitting together on the sofa, the former held tenderly in the latter's arms. To his surprise, he realized that Ron- who had not a few minutes prior been reassuring and consoling them all- was sobbing quietly, tears rolling down his cheeks and soaking the shoulder Hermione's sweater.

Feeling as if he had witnessed something incredibly intimate and which he ought not have seen, Harry went to close the door, a lump in his throat. As he shut it, he thought he heard Hermione murmur, _"I know. I miss him, too."_

* * *

The walk back to the Slytherin common room was a subdued one. Having had his prefect status revoked, Draco had to wait while the new seventh-year prefects gave the secret passage the password.

The common room was quiet when they entered; while most of the students headed up to their dormitories, Draco retreated to an emerald-upholstered bench beneath one of the windows, which looked out to the underwater landscape of the lake. The bright moonlight filtered down through the water, falling in translucent patterns on his pale hands. As tired as he was, he didn't want to go up to his dormitory quite yet.

"Are you alright?"

He glanced over, startled. Jeanie Sailor was looking back at him with obvious worry, biting her lip. Jeanie was easily one of the nicest people he'd ever met; a cousin on his father's side, she had the classic pale Malfoy hair and fine features, but green Sailor eyes. Draco hadn't had an actual conversation with her in about three years, as she'd been unofficially excommunicated from the tight-knit house members in her fourth year for beginning a steady relationship with a muggle-born Hufflepuff. He also vaguely remembered her fighting in the Battle, and was surprised to find that the house's token blood-traitor was so clearly concerned for the former Death Eater. "I'm alright, Sailor," he said tiredly, and then added awkwardly, "…Did Garland…?"

"James is doing fine," she said cheerfully, politely ignoring the fact that Draco wasn't merely asking about the Hufflepuff's state of health. "He's quite happy to be back; he thought he might not get the chance, you know."

Draco shifted uncomfortably; he _did_ know, as a matter of fact. James Garland had been on the list of muggle-born students who hadn't reported to the Ministry, and consequently had been a target for the snatchers. "That's… that's good. Did he go abroad, then?"

"Oh, yes. He went with his family to Sweden. He says it was nice there, but he's so glad to be home." She smiled a little, and then eyed Draco concernedly. "Are you sure you're alright, Malfoy?"

"Sailor-"

"Because I know I always don't sleep very well, moving in at beginning of term," she continued, "so I always take a dreamless sleep potion the first night back. Come to think of it, I have an extra." She reached into her bag and pulled out a small vial of purple liquid.

Stunned by her insight, Draco took the potion, grateful and a little ashamed of himself. "Yes, that… that might be helpful. Thank you, Sailor."

She smiled knowingly. "It wasn't any trouble. Goodnight, Malfoy."

"Goodnight." He waited until his cousin had made her way up the staircase to her room before working up his courage to get up and head for his own dormitory, shoving the potion in his pocket.

He was surprised to find two unfamiliar faces in the room when he stepped inside. "Gladwyn, Duggard; any reason you're not in your own dormitory?" he asked, a little more standoffish than strictly necessary.

"They said they'd do our next two potions reports if they got to room with the big boys," Zabini called over carelessly from his trunk. Draco looked to the two new seventh-years and raised an eyebrow.

"Bit desperate, aren't you?" he said flatly. They shrugged their shoulders, and he rolled his eyes. "Well, stay away from my potions work; I wouldn't trust it to the likes of you if you paid me." He began to make his way over to his usual bed by the window, but then stopped short.

The configuration of beds had always been the same since his first year: Blaise, who snored like a buzz-saw, slept on the far left; Draco, who was a very light sleeper, took the far right. In between were Greg, Vince, and Theo… only now, Vince and Theo's beds were empty. Draco swallowed as he looked to the middle four-poster.

Vincent Crabbe was a lot of things: daft, cruel, selfish and, as it turned out, ultimately disloyal. But he had also been Draco's friend for seven long years. Knowing he was gone, for good, was like being kicked in the stomach. Draco suddenly felt extremely grateful for the potion hidden in his pocket; he had no desire to dream of fiendfire tonight.

The sight of Nott's empty bed directly to the left of Draco's sent a black wave of guilt sweeping through him. Theo had died at the hands of his own father, a late hero to the war but a hero nonetheless. Draco had heard from other students that his dorm-mate had become increasingly more uncomfortable with the Carrows' cruelty and bigotry; apparently, and much to the disdain of his fellow Slytherins, Theo had gone out of his way to help keep the younger students out of trouble, even going so far as to take responsibility for their wrongdoing upon himself from time to time and suffer the consequences thereof. In the final battle, he was one of the few Slytherin students to have returned, and had defended a momentarily incapacitated muggle-born Ravenclaw against three Death Eaters at once. The first two he had managed to stun, but the third, Nott's father, had taken his son's life without a second thought. It felt almost like sacrilege, that anyone else should dare touch the bed which had belonged to the quiet, studious young man.

It seemed, however, that he was the only one who held such reverence. Zabini noticed him staring at the the empty four-poster and, as carelessly as if he were casting a cleaning charm, drew his wand and blasted a hole in the pillow. Draco jumped.

"Circe's stockings, Blaise!" he swore angrily, shocked. "What in Merlin's name was that for?!"

"He betrayed us," Zabini said harshly. "Little git got what he deserved."

"He was murdered by his own father," Draco growled. "He was our _friend,_ Blaise."

"No blood-traitor is a friend of mine."

Goyle and the two underclassman were glancing between Zabini and Malfoy nervously. The two old friends were glaring at each other with venom.

"Shame Riddle never asked you to join up," Draco sneered. "You would've done well as a Death Eater, Blaise."

"A right sight better than you, Zabini shot back. "Everyone knows you chickened out from doing Dumbledore in. If Professor Snape hadn't saved your sorry skin-"

"You haven't got any idea what it's like," Draco snarled. "Have you ever killed anyone, Zabini? Or saw it happen in front of you? Have you ever watched someone beg for mercy?"

Blaise didn't answer, though his eyes still burned with anger. Draco scoffed and stalked over to the empty bed, yanking off the damaged pillow. A down of feathers spilled out and covered the bed like first snow. "Go on, then, Gladwyn, Duggard; don't tell me you're scared of the mattresses." He glanced over at the nervous students and added forcefully, "Two boys are dead. You'd better show some respect."

Duggard and Gladwyn nodded hastily, like two marionettes with their heads controlled by strings. Disgusted- with them, with Blaise, with himself- Draco pulled off his shoes and climbed into bed still in his robes, drawing the four-poster's curtains closed three-quarters of the way, so that all he could see was the window looking out under the water and the gently wavering moonlight. He listened to the others change and get ready, and then let out a low sigh of relief as one by one, each blew out their candles and the dormitory went dark.

For a few minutes he stared up at the pale, rippling half-circle, hanging in the night sky above the surface of the lake. The gentle swish and gurgle of the water currents outside the window was comforting, but his stomach still churned with unease.

 _No blood-traitor is a friend of mine._

Was that what he was now? A blood-traitor, a mudblood-lover, a turncoat to his house, family and creed? He pulled up the sleeve of his dress-robes and swallowed. The Dark Mark leered back at him, reminding him of all he'd seen and done. A blood-traitor Death Eater. It was like some mad joke.

Shoving his sleeve back over the tattoo, he pulled out the vial of purple potion and said a silent prayer of thanks for the kindness of Jeanie Sailor. Uncorking it, he downed the grape-flavored mixture in one go and stared up at the moon, waiting for sleep to come. Within a few seconds, the window panes and the curtains of his bed began to go fuzzy around the edges, and then his vision faded into a cool nothingness.

* * *

The apartment was warm, quiet and homey when Remus and Dora arrived home- an atmosphere both desperately craved, after a night of such intense emotional upheaval. As they shut the door behind them, the door to the nursery opened, and a curvy young woman came out, shrugging on her jacket.

"I thought I heard you come in," Rosmerta whispered. "Teddy was an absolute angel; he fell asleep half an hour ago."

"Thanks, Rosie," Dora said, smiling. "What do we owe you again?"

Rosmerta waved her hand. "It was my pleasure, really; I needed a night away from the bar."

"Rosmerta, really-"

"Not a word out of you, Remus. No, I won't hear of it; call me up anytime."

"We'll just tip you extra-well next time we pop down to the village," Dora warned with a smile.

"We'll see about that. Now you two get some rest; big day tomorrow, yes?" She tugged affectionately on the auror's pink hair. "Good luck to you both- and come down for a drink anytime you please!"

They laughed and wished her a goodnight as well, locking the door behind her as she left. "We have to pay her back," Remus said, shaking his head.

"We will. Want to go see Teddy?"

"After you."

She giggled at his gentlemanly behavior and led the way into the nursery. Teddy was, as promised, sound asleep in his cradle, sucking on his thumb. Dora brushed her fingertips lightly across his chocolate curls. "I never get over just how beautiful he is," she whispered.

"Nor me," Remus agreed, resting a hand on her shoulder. Dora looked up at him and smiled sadly.

"I wish Dad could have seen him. He would have loved being a granddad."

Remus nodded. "As would have my parents." He looked down at the sleeping child and sighed. "My father would have been so proud… he always told me I'd be a good family man, even when I didn't believe him."

"And now you know he was right," Dora said softly, taking his hand in hers. He gave her a sad half-smile and nodded.

Hand-in-hand, they walked back into the living room, where the fire Rosmerta had started several hours before was just beginning to die down. "I think I'll go change," Dora said tiredly, running a hand through her hair. It lightened to its natural mousy brown. "You coming to bed, love?"

"Maybe in a few minutes," he sighed. "I just…"

"Need some time to yourself?" she guessed. He nodded exhaustedly, and she squeezed his hand. "You come in when you're ready." She kissed his cheek and disappeared into their bedroom.

Feeling far older than he ever had, Remus walked to the hearth and opened his hand, revealing the small sapphire resting gently in his palm. Hazel eyes dark, he watched the soft firelight flicker through the blue stone and over the gold engraving:

 _Lyall Lupin_

 _1929_ _–_ _1981_

A wave of old pain washed through him. His father had died in a manner worth of his Ravenclaw wisdom: a known blood-traitor, father to a lycanthrope and sympathizer to the Order of the Phoenix, Lyall had been a prime target for Riddle's allies, all hoping to gain some information of the Order's doings through the father of a known member. Although Remus had insisted Lyall go into hiding after Greyback had threatened the young werewolf with his father's life unless he joined the pack, the elder Lupin had insisted on doing what he could for the war effort, running a safe-house for endangered muggles and muggle-borns under the roof of his fidelius-protected flat (of which he himself was the secret-keeper). One day, when Lyall had gone out to buy a few groceries for himself and the flat's temporary occupants, he'd been caught by a band of Death Eaters and interrogated for information. When that failed, the Death Eaters had tried using a legilimens- Remus only found out later that it was Bellatrix Lestrange- to try to worm the information out of him. Lyall, a trained occlumens, had resisted her efforts unfailingly until at last Bellatrix had killed him out of frustration.

It was the first in a long line of losses Remus had personally suffered from that war, and one of the most brutal. He had loved his father dearly; Lyall had sacrificed nearly everything, from friends to home to wealth for his son's well-being, even going so far as to teach Remus any magic he could without a wand, uncertain whether his son would be allowed to attend school. It was under his gentle tutelage that the nine-year-old boy had learned to control his unpredictable mood swings and been trained in the skills of occlumency far beyond his years, a talent invaluable for a boy and eventually a man with any number of personal secrets. The only time they had genuinely fought was the day of Hope's funeral: the same day Lyall had told Remus the real cause and circumstances of his illness. Remus had run away from home, distraught and furious, and hadn't spoken to Lyall for months… a fact he still regretted to this day. Although they had reconciled in the fall of his seventh year, Remus had lost his father not two years later, and would have given anything to have the lost time back.

Blinking and wiping his eyes, the now-professor set the sapphire atop the mantle, tracing his finger over the gold lettering. With a sigh, he turned and walked over to the bedroom, intent on changing and perhaps getting at least a few hours' sleep. Instead, however, he opened the door to find Dora sobbing quietly on the edge of the bed.

"O-oh," she mumbled brokenly, glancing up as the door squeaked. "Remus- I was just- just-"

"Oh, Dora," he murmured, crossing the distance between them and pulling her up into his arms. She broke down again and began to cry into his shoulder.

"R-Remus, it's not f- _fair,"_ she cried. "Why did he have to d-die? Why did he have to l-leave Mum and m-me?"

"He didn't want to, Dora," Remus whispered thickly. "You know that. He loved you and Andromeda more than anything in the world."

"I know- I just- just-"

"Shh." He kissed her shoulder and held her while she wept, rocking back and forth slightly and rubbing circles on her back. After a long time, his wife let out a hiccupping sigh and pulled away, looking to the ruby in her hand.

"I should send it to Mum," she said hoarsely. "She deserves to have it…"

"If that's what you feel is right," he said softly. "But she does have his Order of Merlin, you know. I think she'd want you to have this."

Dora sighed and nodded. "I think you're right… I'll still ask her, though…"

"You're loyal through and through, Dora," he said, smiling wryly. "I'm just glad I don't have one of those diamonds."

She choked out a laugh, even though it wasn't really funny. "And a girl can only have so many rubies."

Remus nodded. "Let's try to get some sleep, yes?" he suggested. "Lots to do tomorrow."  
"Yeah, I suppose…" She crawled into bed as he went over to the dresser, pulling out a set of worn, comfortable pajamas. "…Remus?"

"Mm?"

"Is it going to be okay?" She winced, knowing how stupid it must have sounded, but Remus glanced over his shoulder with a very serious look in his eyes, as if this weren't a stupid question at all.

With a sigh, still holding his pajamas in his hands, he walked back over to her and kissed her gently on the forehead. "Yes, Dora," he murmured softly. "One day, everything is going to be okay again. I promise."

She smiled at that. "Alright. Goodnight, Remus. I love you."

"I love you too, darling." He left the room quietly and headed to the bathroom to change and brush his teeth. By the time he returned, his wife was fast asleep, curled up in a ball the way she always slept, tenderly clasping Ted's ruby in her fingers as if it were a father's loving hand.

Feeling heavy with exhaustion, he slipped under the comforter beside. Looking up at the ceiling, he swallowed the lump in his throat.

"I'm proud of you, Tad," he murmured. "A boy couldn't have asked for a better father." He looked over to his sleeping wife, and added softly, "And I hope I've made you proud of me… I love you."

With that, he reached over and put out the candle, and the room was shrouded in a deep and comforting darkness.

* * *

 **A/N: So! Again, very very sorry that this was late; I do hope you all enjoyed it! A note on a few things:**

 **1.) Regarding Emmeline Vance and Bertha Jorkins: I have no idea to what houses these two belonged, as it is not mentioned anywhere in the books or online. Therefore, I decided to assign them both to Slytherin, because why not?**

 **2.) No, Jeanie Sailor is not Draco's future love interest; I just liked including another "good Slytherin" character. Breaking stereotypes, you know?**

 **3.) Theodore Nott's death: I decided to write Nott as one of the Slytherins who returned to defend Hogwarts against Voldemort. As his father was a Death Eater, I thought his death by his father's hand would be an interesting twist.**

 **4.) Lyall Lupin's death: although his death is never mentioned, the Harry Potter wikia gives it as 1981. His son was in the Order and Lyall was clearly a "blood-traitor," so I decided having him die a war hero was very fitting. As to both of them being an occlumens, we know that Dumbledore never found out until the spring of 1994 that Sirius was an animagus, something he would have discovered had he ever managed to read Remus's thoughts or had he taught Remus occlumency himself. Considering the nature of Remus's then-secret, I don't think it'd be surprising if Lyall himself taught his son how to guard his mind. The wikia confirms that this is a possibility.  
**

 **5.) "Tad" is the Welsh version of "Dad," not a misspelling.**

 **Again, I hope you liked it! Please review!**


	7. Chapter 7: The First Day of School

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here. The rhyme "There Was an Old Woman," is in the public domain.

 **Warnings: cute, thinly-veiled references to Dora and Remus deciding to, er, encourage Teddy's chances for sibling rivalry (very end of the chapter). ;) Also, baby Teddy!**

* * *

The morning of Wednesday, September 2nd dawned bright and early, and Remus groaned, grabbing the tinkling bell from the bedside table like he wished he were the type to throw it against the wall. But he wasn't, so he sat up and sighed.

"Mmm…" Dora mumbled beside him. "Remus…"

"Sorry," he whispered, touching her arm. She smiled lazily and drifted back off again. Teddy had woken up wailing halfway through the night- a less frequent occurrence now that the boy was more than three months old- but Dora had insisted on taking care of him herself, knowing her husband had work the next day. Remus sighed, wishing briefly that he didn't have to get up, looking at his lovely bride and warm, soft bed, before forcing himself to his feet.

By the time he arrived at breakfast, the great hall was already full and buzzing with the happy chatter of students. Remus took his seat at the staff table and watched the revelry unfold.

"Good morning, Remus."

He glanced over; Professor Sprout was smiling cheerfully at him. "Morning, Pomona. Eager for classes to begin?"

"Mm. I've got first-years first thing on Wednesdays," she said, with mild grumpiness, "But so long as they don't kill themselves, I'll be alright. And yourself?"

"I've got seventh-years first," he said pleasantly. Pomona gave him a false glare of jealousy, and he laughed. "But it's hardly a picnic; I take all four houses per class, worked it out with the headmistress."

Pomona snorted. "Best of luck, then. Pumpkin juice?"

"Gladly." She passed him the pitcher, and he poured himself a goblet, taking a long sip and reveling a little in the luxury of eating a breakfast without first preparing it.

"Morning, Professor Lupin," a voice called smartly, and he glanced up as Professor McGonagall passed around the table and behind him, taking her seat in the center. She had a rather irritable expression on her face.

"Good morning," the younger professor said with surprise. "Is something the matter?"

She waved a hand dismissively. "Nothing of consequence. Pass me the pumpkin juice?"

He did so, still slightly curious. The Headmistress's face was reminiscent of the time he, Peter and James had charmed the walls of the common room purple in their fifth year, and crowned Sirius king as a joke. Repressing a snort at the memory, he picked up his fork, intending to take a few kippers from the nearest tray- and promptly dropped it again, letting out a sharp gasp of surprise.

"Remus? You alright?" Pomona said, startled.

"Fine- forgot about the silverware- Dora and I use nickel-" He retrieved his wand from his pocket and murmured a quick spell; a moment later, a layer of fresh skin crawled over the mild burns, and the stinging sensation faded.

"Oh Remus, I'm so sorry- I forgot-" McGonagall looked even more flustered, and now guilty as well.

"No trouble, Professor; I'll just have a muffin. Pass me one, would you, Sybill?"

The slightly eccentric witch handed him a blueberry muffin. As Remus took a bite, he glanced across the room, to where Harry and Ronald were sitting down on either side of Ginny and Hermione. Several first years were glancing up at the staff table with curiosity, mainly at Professor Binns, who was speaking to Flitwick and absent-mindedly trying to pick up a biscuit, through which his translucent hand continued to pass unfeelingly. Remus grinned to himself and hid his chuckle in the goblet as he took another gulp of pumpkin juice. Hogwarts. Even as a teacher, the first day was never dull.

Soon enough the clock was striking half past seven; knowing he had a class at eight, he excused himself from the table and set about finding his room. It was not the same as last time; in order for his schedule to be configured correctly so as to have Tuesdays and Thursdays off (save for an early class), he took all four houses per year for four hours a week. With the case of the double senior class, this meant roughly seventy students, which dully entailed a larger room. He was grateful to McGonagall for arranging it so neatly; while pulling a four-class day could be brutal, his new schedule meant he could watch Teddy on those days when Dora went back to work at the Ministry.

Thankfully, the classroom was quite empty when he reached it; everything was quiet and still, despite the students making their way through the many halls above and below. Through the arched windows, the sun was rising pink, rosy beams of light falling upon the stone floor and dark wood of the desks. Remus took a moment to close his eyes and smile, resting a hand on the stone sill and letting the light brush his face. He'd forgotten how much he loved it here.

With the half-hour he had before class began, he quickly arranged his lecture notes, glancing over them and correcting any mistakes. Had Dora been there, she would have told him to stop being so nitpicky and nervous- but then, Dora was sound asleep several floors above him, or perhaps just waking up to feed Teddy, and he was allowed to fret and fuss a little if he wished. Yes, he was nervous; the last time he had prepared for his 'first day,' none of the students had been aware of his condition. Now it was practically common knowledge. In addition, he couldn't shake that uneasy feeling in his stomach; what if he did a poor job? What if the children laughed at him behind his back? What if all his students failed their exams? Of course, they hadn't failed _last_ time, and many _had_ claimed he was the best Defense professor they'd ever had- but, well, this was a new year, and he couldn't help but feel anxious. He so wanted everything to go _perfectly,_ and in his experience, important matters rarely did.

Soon enough, however, the clock tower was chiming quarter-to. Within a few minutes, students began to pour in through the classroom door. He knew even before everyone arrived that class was bound to be crowded; with two senior classes mixing together, the desks were soon all filled, including the spares. Lupin kept track of the faces he knew best: first Ron, Harry and Hermione, who all greeted him with a smile; then there was Neville, sitting calmly on the other side of Hermione, more out of habit than any real need for the help she'd provided him in years gone by; and then Patil sisters, glossy dark hair tied up in twin buns, and Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, joking back and forth as always as they took their adjacent seats; then Millicent Bulstrode and Pansy Parkinson, casting haughty glances in the direction of the others; Ginny Weasely, who smiled at Harry as she sat down in the desk to his side; one Miss Luna Lovegood, looking pleasantly dreamy as ever; Hannah Abbot and Susan Bones; Macmillan and Finch-Fletchy; Corner, Boot, and several other students besides. He did notice in particular, however, that a certain Draco Malfoy slipped quietly into the room and took his seat far from any of his house members, in the back left corner by the windows.

"Alright, alright everyone, settle down!" he called, raising a hand as the clock struck eight-thirty. The class quickly quieted.

"Thank you," he said pleasantly, "and welcome to seventh-year Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts. My name is Professor Lupin; I'm sure many of you remember me. For those who do not, I taught this class four years ago." Several of the students smiled at him; several others looked nervous. He took a steadying breath and continued, "This course was originally only available to students with sufficient OWLs, particularly those looking into applying for auror training or becoming an advanced-level Healer. The events of the past year have caused the Headmistress to change your graduating course requirements; all levels of Defense are now required for graduation, hence your presence here.

"In this course we will be covering several matters concerning Defense Against the Dark Arts, including the history of such defensive magic, the proper use and execution of it, dangerous magical creatures you may encounter, and, at the end of the course, the beginning basics of auror training." The class began to whisper excitedly; he held up his hand again to quiet them. "No doubt many of you are already well experienced in dueling situations, and my greatest commendation to those of you who defended the school in battle this past April. Nevertheless, there is a bit more to the tracking and capture of dark wizards than just dueling; my own wife, an auror herself, has graciously agreed to help me instruct you in such manners." He hesitated, and then added, "On a somewhat less pleasant note, I understand that some topics covered in this course may be rather sensitive, especially concerning recent events; I would invite anyone with concerns to come speak to me after class, and I will of course excuse any sufficiently explained absence for such reason."

As he concluded, one of the young men near the left-hand windows raised his hand. He was a Gryffindor, Lupin noted, and vaguely recalled that he had been in Ginny's class, four years prior. "Yes, Mr.-" He searched for the name for a moment. "-Adrian Harold, wasn't it?"

"That's me."

"Yes, Mr. Harold?"

"Well, doesn't the Headmistress think it's a little _inappropriate,_ to have a dark creature teach Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

Lupin stopped dead. He felt as if he'd had the wind knocked out of him; for the life of him, he couldn't think of what to say. The rest of the class was equally shocked; clearly they hadn't expected anyone to be so… blunt.

"Why don't you bugger off, Harold?" a voice sneered from the back, and everyone turned to look, surprised. Draco was glaring at the younger Gryffindor with a hard venom in his eyes.

"Oh, should I?" Adrian spat back, "I suppose _you'd_ know all about the dark arts, wouldn't you, _Malfoy?"_

The blond Slytherin flushed, the blood in his cheeks standing out red against his pale skin and hair. He dropped his eyes.

Remus had finally managed to recover his command of speech. "Mr. Harold," he said quietly, and the boy looked over. "If you find my teaching inadequate, or would prefer not to be taught by a lycanthrope, please, feel free to raise your concerns with the Headmistress. Nevertheless, while you are in my class, I will not tolerate you insulting other students. Do I make myself clear?" Harold looked ready to argue for a moment, and then grudgingly nodded. "Thank you; five points from Gryffindor. As to you, Mr. Malfoy." Draco glanced up, startled. "I do not appreciate that sort of language in my classroom; nevertheless, your intention is gratefully acknowledged. Ten points to Slytherin."

Malfoy blinked, startled; clearly he hadn't expected the Gryffindor head of house- not to mention a man whom he personally had insulted on various occasions- to defend him from the well-deserved slurs of other, more deserving students, let alone award him points. Lupin offered him a small smile of gratitude and then continued brusquely, "We will be spending the next two weeks going over a very brief timeline of the history of Defense Against the Dark Arts- tedious work, I know, but it's incredibly important information. As they say," he added, turning serious eyes to his students, "Those who do not know their history are bound to repeat it." Several students nodded quietly in agreement. "Moreover, the sooner we're through it, the sooner we can move on to more practical- and exciting- matters. On that note, everyone please take out your quills and a roll of parchment…"

By the time the class ended ninety minutes later, his class seemed in a fairly cheerful mood. "That was fantastic," Ron said, stopping by his desk on the way out. "You should sub for Binns someday; this is the first time history hasn't put me to sleep."

Remus chuckled. "I'm glad you liked it, Ron. Have a good day; same to you, Harry, Hermione."

As the students filed out of the room, he smiled to himself, now much more at ease. _One class done, three more to go._

At ten-fifteen, the last few stragglers of his next class- Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff first-years- rushed breathless into the room. "Sorry, Professor!" one young boy panted. "I got lost-"

"No need to worry; everyone does. You know, I myself took two wrong staircases my first day at Hogwarts, and ended up stuck inside a revolving bookcase for an hour, thought I'd never get out," he mused. The boy laughed. "Go ahead and take your seat; we'll start in a minute."

He waited until everyone was settled in, and then began, "Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts, year one. If that is _not_ the class you intended to be in, you're in the wrong room." There was a general giggle at this, and then one very red-faced Gryffindor girl got up and left. He waited again as the door closed and then continued, "I am Professor Lupin; it's a pleasure to meet you all. Now, you should have all received your class itineraries in the mail- er, yes?"

A young Ravenclaw boy had raised his hand; at the professor's word, he lowered it and asked calmly, "Are you the werewolf?"

Several people let out a nervous sort of giggle; Lupin raised an eyebrow. "Well, I am _a_ werewolf; if by _'the'_ you meant the only one on staff, yes, that's correct." He noted that several other students had gotten a nervous sort of look in their eyes and managed a short chuckle, trying not to allow his own anxieties to show through. "Now, you needn't all look so frightened; werewolves aren't dangerous except on the full moon, and even then only if we haven't taken a certain sort of potion- all excellent information you'll be learning in this class soon enough." He waved his wand at the blackboard, and the theory for sending off sparks appeared in chalk. "Today we are going to be learning two of the most basic but helpful defense spells, setting off red and green sparks to signal for help. The two incantations are _Vermillious_ and _Verdimillious._ Can everyone repeat that? _Vermillious_ and _Verdimillious…"_

* * *

"I can't believe it. Thirty pages, on the first day of term! Even McGonagall never gave us that much!"

"Stop _grousing,_ Ron," Hermione huffed. "You had all of lunch and the study hour to get it done! _And_ you aren't taking any electives!"

"She's got a fair point," Harry pointed out. It was much later that evening; he and Ron had spent their two free hours finishing the homework for Lupin and Professor Kemp; Hermione, on the other hand, had received a very complicated-looking assignment for her Arrithmancy class, and was in an irritable mood that the boys had the rest of the night free.

Ron was having none of it; he huffed and muttered, "Just because _she_ signed herself up for the two most difficult classes on the roster…"

"At least we're done for classes for today," the dark-haired wizard said, with perhaps just a tad too much cheer, as Hermione sent him a sharp glare, but before she could retort, she stopped short in surprise.

"Now what's all this about?" she said, with mild interest.

"What now?" said Ron irritably, but stopped when he saw the notice pinned to the oak doors leading into the Great Hall:

 **All Seventh Years:**

 **Please report to Room 324**

 **After dinner tonight**

 **For instructions regarding senior thesis projects**

 **And employment internships.**

"Thesis projects?" Harry said, startled.

"Blimey, I forgot about that," Ron said, frowning. "Haven't even started thinking about mine yet…"

"What is it?" Hermione questioned, clearly as confused as Harry, which was a rare occurrence when it came to schoolwork.

"All seventh years have to do a senior project sort of thing– some really complicated magic or writing a big paper, you know?" He frowned pensively. "I think Percy did a report on the Minister… Charlie was smart, just kept a journal of his internship with the dragon-handlers–"

"That's another thing; what's all this about internships?" Hermione questioned eagerly.

"Well that's how you get a job, isn't it?" Ron said with a shrug. "Your head of house sends in internship applications to where you'd like to work. Then second term your class load gets cut in half and you go to work instead. Like I said, Charlie would apparate to Romania every day and work with the dragon handlers, and then he'd come home and write down what he did in his journal. Turned it in as his thesis at the end of the year."

"So you mean, if the auror program accepts us–" Harry began.

"–Then we'll be working in the Defense Office during the evenings," Ron finished with a shrug. "Exactly."

"Oh, but that's so _exciting!"_ Hermione exclaimed. "Can't you imagine, sitting right there, while all around you people are writing laws and working on cases and-"

"–And bringing in dark wizards and binding and booking 'em!" Ron said cheerfully. "Man, that'll be awesome, won't it? Harry?"

But Harry seemed to be lost in thought. Ron hit him lightly in the arm. "Hey. You still with us, mate?"

"Oh- er- yeah, sorry. Drifted off a bit," he apologized hurriedly. "Sounds, er, really brilliant."

Hermione gave him an odd look. "Are you alright, Harry?"

"Fine- just hungry. Let's eat, yeah?"

Dinner passed quickly enough; everyone was chattering excitedly about the senior-year seminar. Neville and Hermione got into an anxious conversation about where he was intending to apply for an internship ("Gran wants me to go into auror work; I think I have the right stuff for it, but I dunno, I really do want to teach…" "I think you'd be a grand professor. Have you talked it over with Lupin yet?"), and Ron played with his food pensively as he and Harry discussed thesis ideas, absent-mindedly drawing a dragon in his mashed potatoes.

When the clock struck quarter-to, the seventh-year students all stood up and made their way to the third floor, where the door of an old classroom stood ajar. As they filed inside, Harry noticed that Professor McGonagall stood, straight-backed and serious, near the front of the room. He recalled forcefully his first day of classes in his first year, and was struck with a pang of nervousness. This he dismissed a moment later, reminding himself that he had faced far greater obstacles than essays and business applications.

When everyone had arrived and was sitting quietly in their desks (seven years of studying under the new headmistress's tutelage had trained them all quite well what was expected in her presence), McGonagall nodded. "Good afternoon. I trust your first day of classes went well?"

Everyone glanced around and nodded.

"Very good. Now, to business." She turned to the board and waved her wand; lines of chalk text appeared in precise, slanted cursive. "As many of you are aware, a student's final year at Hogwarts is marked by two important educational rights of passage. The first and more pressing of these is your spring-term internship, for which applications are due at the end of the month." With another wave of her wand, a stack of parchment forms on her desk dispersed across the room, landing on the desks. "Each of you will have a meeting with your head of house over the course of next week; at that time, you will finalize your class schedule for your final two terms, discuss your career options, and, with their approval, submit these applications for a four-month internship to your chosen potential employer. _If_ you are accepted, and _if_ you perform well and score highly enough in your N.E.W.T.s, you stand a good chance of being admitted for full employment. Necessary examination marks can be found on the other side of your application-"

There was a ruffle of pages as each student flipped to the list on the back of the parchment, which included the necessary N.E.W.T. requirements. "Look at that," Ron moaned faintly, nodding to the tiny row marked, _auror._ Harry looked and swallowed nervously.

The recent depletion of their ranks had by no means led the auror office to lower their standards; three black _O's_ stood in the columns labeled _Transfiguration, Potions,_ and _Defense Against the Dark Arts,_ with a slightly less formidable _E_ inscribed in the columns for _Herbology_ and _Charms._ Oddly enough, another category had been added: _History of Magic,_ with the accompanying required score of _Exceeds Expectations._ Savior of the wizarding world or not, it was going to take some serious effort if he wanted to be an auror. With a sudden interest, he checked the list for the department supervisor; it was blank, meaning that Kingsley was likely still running it for the time being until he had the chance to appoint someone to take Mad-Eye's place.

"How is that going to work? You haven't taken History of Magic for two years," Hermione whispered, glancing over at the pair.

As if she'd heard her, McGonagall raised a hand; the class quickly quieted. "You will notice that _History of Magic_ has been added as a necessary N.E.W.T. mark to many of the Ministry occupations. You needn't fret; as the course has already been made mandatory for graduation, and your examiners will be sympathetic to the effect the war had on your education in this subject. If, however, you find it necessary to add any other class to your schedule without having taken the sixth-year course, you will need to obtain signed permission from the instructor."

Ron groaned. "Perfect. Another year of History of Magic."

"We spent the last year hiding in a tent and living off mushrooms," Harry pointed out under his breath.

"I think I'll take the mushrooms…"

 _"Each_ of you will also take on a senior-year thesis project," McGonagall continued, casting the whispering trio a withering glare. "This thesis is a treasured Hogwarts tradition and has led to many an important magical discovery; for that reason, it is preferable but not necessary that this project relate to your chosen career. Past examples include-" She waved her wand, and a list appeared on the board, "-brewing or improving on an advanced potion, training in occlumency or animagancy, writing a report on some important figure or development in your field, and so on. Take note that your thesis project _must_ be an area of study which you have not already mastered."

Harry scanned the list with interest, and shot a grin at Hermione when his eyes landed on the words, _polyjuice potion._

"You may work alone or in pairs and on any thesis of your choice, but take note that every project must be approved by the subject professor, your head of house, and myself." She glanced over them all sternly. "I would also strictly advise against making the mistake of taking my staff or me for fools. Any sign that a student may be undertaking such a discipline for less than scrupulous motives will be handled with the utmost severity."

More muttering, darker this time, and a few students glanced over at several specific faces from the Slytherin clan; Harry was mildly pleased to note that Malfoy was staring stonily down at his application parchment.

A sudden _bang!_ went off in the room; the crowd jumped in unison and glanced back to McGonagall, who was frowning. "I understand that your impending future can be a rather dull subject," she said dryly, "but I would appreciate it if you at least made an effort to pay attention." Several students murmured apologies, the trio among them. "As with your internship applications, thesis summaries are due to your head of house at the end of the month. Everyone understands? Very good; now, to our last order of business." With a wave of her wand, the chalk vanished from the board. "As I'm sure many of you are aware, now that all of your classmates are of age, you all have full permission to visit Hogsmead at any time-"

The classroom erupted into a flurry of excited questions and cheering; McGonagall set off another loud noise with her wand, looking as if she were about to have a conniption. _"-However,_ take note that the castle gates are sealed every evening at sunset!" she finished sharply. "You will not be allowed entrance onto the grounds after that point; unless you want to spend the night at the Three Broomsticks, I suggest each of you make a point of returning on time. Curfew hours on-grounds will remain the same for the safety of the younger students, and the wards around the castle will alert us if you are attempting to return with any contraband items, _including_ alcoholic substances. I trust I have made everything quite clear?"

There was a general excited assent to this, and with that, the Headmistress dismissed them for the evening. The halls, naturally, filled with students excitedly discussing the new developments, most of them having elected to spend the last hour before sunset in the village. "I didn't know seventh years could leave the castle," Harry said cheerfully, as they hurried across the grounds to the gates. "I guess they can't really keep us locked in here now that the whole class is of age, can they?"

"Of course not," Hermione replied with a long-suffering sigh. "Honestly, Harry, if you would ever just crack open a copy of _Hogwarts, a History…"_

"How many times have you read that, anyway?" Ron pointed out.

"A fair few," she replied primly, as they crossed over the threshold of the gates. There was a slight ripple in the air as they passed through the barrier-wards. "I can't wait to start my thesis; it all looks so interesting!"

"Do you know what you want to do, then?" Ron questioned, and then added, "Oh, come on- let's apparate; it'll be quicker." He made as if to turn.

"Don't you dare; you haven't passed your test yet!" Hermione interjected quickly.

"Oh, c'mon, 'Mione; I've been doing just fine for the last year-"

"You're Head Boy now; you can't afford to get hauled off to London for apparating without a license! Here." She grabbed hold of his hand. Harry raised an eyebrow and grinned, and both of them blushed.

"Oh, don't be so immature," Hermione snapped waspishly, and then turned on the spot. She and Ron vanished; Harry chuckled and followed after a moment later.

He landed across the road from them, near the Three Broomsticks, and waited for them to hurriedly run across. Hermione was still holding Ron's hand, both rather pink, but neither let go. "Anyway," she said hastily as they started off down the street, shooting Harry a warning look that said she would jinx him into next Tuesday if he said anything, "I've been thinking about it, and I think I'd like to do a report."

Ron scoffed. "A _report?_ Out of all the interesting stuff you could choose from-"

"I'm going into law, Ronald; it would be very beneficial for me to research the career of a wizard who served on the courts!"

"Alright, alright, don't get your robes in a twist," he said hastily. Hermione rolled her eyes, but her boyfriend merely nodded to Harry and said, "What about you?"

Harry considered it a moment, and then said honestly, "I think I'd like to finish learning occlumency. Seems like it could be helpful for an auror, you know?"

"That's true," Ron agreed. "I was thinking- but I dunno, occlumency might be a little easier…"

"What were you thinking of that makes occlumency seem _easy?"_ Harry asked, incredulous.

"Well… nah, it's silly-"

"Go on!"

Ron went a little red, and then mumbled, "Well, I- I thought it'd be sort of cool, you know… to be an animagus."

Hermione and Harry glanced at each other, surprised. "An animagus!" Hermione exclaimed. "Goodness, that's- Ron, that's _very_ complicated magic-"

"Always the tone of surprise," Ron grumbled.

"No, no- I didn't mean you couldn't do it, just that it'd be really hard for anyone," Hermione hurried to say, and then added thoughtfully, "But I suppose it'd be very helpful as an auror."

"That's true," Harry agreed. "Especially since your patronus is a terrier. Pretty easy to go unnoticed like that, isn't it?"

"Yeah, a great bloody stag isn't exactly inconspicuous, mate," Ron sniggered.

"Fair point." Harry was grinning. "I think it's brilliant, Ron, really. You should go for it."

"You think?" The redhead looked excited now.

"Yeah, I do. 'Mione?"

Hermione bit her lip for a moment pensively, and then suddenly smirked in a rather un-Hermione-like manner. "What?" Ron demanded.

"Well… just that your patronus _is_ pretty adorable…"

Ron didn't stop blushing all the way into the bar.

* * *

The inside of the Three Broomsticks was warm and well-lit, already filled with students. Hermione spotted an empty table near the bar and quickly dragged them over. "Looks like the last lot left their menus. Ooh, I've always wanted to try the mulled wine here…"

Harry remembered with a sudden surprise that he was no longer too young for anything except pumpkin juice and butterbeer. "Er- right, yeah. Uh-" He had the sneaking suspicion the Three Broomsticks did not keep Carling on tap. "Hey, Ron, what do I get?"

"Dunno, whatever you like- oh, hey, Rosmerta!" His blue eyes went a little dreamy as the curvy bartender made her way over. Hermione kicked him sharply under the table.

"Evening, m'dears; Merlin's monocle, any busier in here and I'll have to start apparating back to the tap. What'll you be having?"

"Mulled wine, please," Hermione said politely, handing her the menu.

"Half-pint of Firewhiskey," Ron added.

Rosmerta looked expectantly to Harry, who hastily agreed, "Same for me."

"Two firewhiskeys and a- _oh, bugger it all!"_ A crowd of Hufflepuffs had just come through the door. "Just what I needed. Won't one of you be a dear and come get the drinks at the bar when they're ready?"

"No problem," Harry agreed. Rosmerta thanked him and disappeared with a _crack!_

The trio chatted for a few minutes more, before Harry noticed that two amber-filled bottles and a glass of wine had appeared on the bar. "Back in a mo'," he informed the pair, who promptly took the opportunity to engage in some good-natured bickering, which Harry had long since learned to distinguish as their means of awkwardly trying to make a move.

"Three sickles, nine knuts, dear," Rosmerta called as she breezed past, levitating six full tankards with her wand. Harry fished the money out of his pocket (he'd have Ron and 'Mione pay him back later), and was just about to return to the table with the drinks when he noticed who was sitting at the bar just beside him, concentrating intensely on what appeared to be several important forms. "Professor Lupin!"

The teacher started and looked over. "Harry! Merlin, you nearly gave me a heart attack!"

Harry grinned. "You looked pretty focused." He nodded to the papers. "What're you doing down here?"

"Dora and I decided to celebrate our last night of freedom with dinner and a few drinks." At Harry's confused look, he clarified, "By the end of the week, she'll be back at work full-time and I'll be buried under a mountain of assignments in need of correcting, so we decided to take the night off. McGonagall's watching Teddy, and Dora should be down in half an hour or so. I just wanted to get this paperwork out of the way first."

"You're doing alright, then?" Harry asked hesitantly. "You and Tonks, I mean."

Lupin raised an eyebrow. "I usually don't allow my students to ask me such personal questions." Harry gave him a look, and Remus rolled his eyes. _"Yes,_ Harry, Dora and I are doing just fine. Er- by the way-" His expression turned a bit guilty. "I know I never did get 'round to apologizing properly-"

Harry waved his hand dismissively. "Water under the bridge."

Remus chuckled. "Right." He glanced with sudden interest to the drinks and said, "Those yours?"

"Er- well, I'm of age, so yeah." He went a little red, and Lupin chuckled.

"Calm down, I'm not about to scold you. You're an adult, after all. I just thought you might want to try that firewhiskey before you bring it back."

"Why?"

Lupin chuckled. "Just trust me."

Harry eyed him suspiciously, and then raised the mouth of the bottle to his mouth and took a large gulp of the contents.

It took him all of half a second to realize that this was a mistake. The alcohol burned like hot coals as it slipped down his throat; Harry choked and violently coughed out the rest, prompting Lupin to burst into laughter. "Merlin, Harry, does that ever bring back memories!" he chortled. "Rosmerta!" The bartender glanced over. "You still remember how to make a Prongs Special?"

The blonde blinked, glanced to Harry, and started to laugh as well. "Not a problem!" she called over, grinning.

"What?" Harry demanded hoarsely, wiping his eyes (they'd started to water in mild pain). "What's so funny?"

Lupin shook his head, still grinning. "Oh, Harry, you drink just like your father," he chuckled. "James never could take firewhiskey straight, either. Oh, thanks, Rosmerta." The bartender had set a glass three-quarters full of butterbeer in front of them. Remus poured about a quarter-bottle of firewhiskey into the cup and swirled the contents together. "Try it now."

Harry did so tentatively; the flavor was a good sight better, and it didn't burn nearly so harshly. "Thanks. Here-" He went to fish a few coins out of his pocket, but Remus held up a hand.

"Nonsense; it's my treat. James would've wanted me to." He set a sickle and two knuts down on the bar. "Besides, someone needs to finish off that bottle; mind if I take it?"

"It's pretty strong, isn't it?" Harry said suspiciously, eyeing the professor's already half-finished drink.

Remus waved his hand. "I'll be fine. It takes four times as much to get me drunk as it does you."

"Yeah?"

"Mm. Your father found that out the hard way our first night of seventh year; he decided it'd be fun for four green kids to play a drinking game. Two hours later, the three of them were all snoring under the table and I was stuck getting us all rooms for the night." Lupin chuckled. "You should've seen McGonagall's face when we all came into Transfiguration the next morning, the three of them completely knackered and I cheerful as could be. Poor Peter could barely sit upright." His eyes grew a little sad at the mention of his former friend, and Harry nodded.

"You know, he took a good turn, at the end," he said gently. "He hesitated when I reminded him of his life debt, and then the hand turned on him. I think it must've been because he decided he didn't want to do it anymore."

"I know. Ron told me after the battle." Remus sighed and looked down at his drink. "I'd hoped when all was said and done, he'd still be around and I could have talked some sense into him… but at least in the end, he didn't die a monster. There was still good in him, somewhere deep down. I'm grateful for that."

Harry nodded sympathetically and raised his drink. "To lost friends," he said quietly.

Lupin smiled sadly and tapped the neck of his bottle to the glass. "To lost friends."

Each of them took a drink, and then Harry nodded back to where Ron and Hermione were waiting at the table, engaged in some conversation. "I should probably get back."

"Right. Well, have a good evening, Harry."

"You too, Professor." He paid for the drinks and carried them back to the table, where the other two looked up, surprised.

"What took you so long?" Ron questioned, reaching for his drink.

"Got talking to Lupin; sorry. You going to drink that or what?"

"Alright, alright, hold your horses." Harry watched expectantly as Ron rolled his eyes, took a gulp of his drink, and promptly spat it out, spluttering and choking out half-oaths in anger.

"Prat," Ron said hoarsely when he could finally speak again, glowering at him. Hermione was snorting into her glass of wine.

"Sorry; couldn't resist."

From his seat at the bar, Lupin grinned as he watched the boy- no, young man, now- laugh and talk with his friends. He was in some ways so much like both James and Lily (hadn't James had nearly the same reaction, the first time he'd tried firewhiskey?), and yet in others so very different. He was his own man through and through, and Remus couldn't help but feel proud.

"Hey there, sailor; buy me a drink?"

He turned the other way and grinned to see a pink-haired witch smirking back at him. "Oh, I'd be careful if I were you, Miss," he said straight-faced, but with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Some sailors turn out to be pirates, you know."

Tonks chuckled. "My, you've already had a bit, haven't you?" She glanced to the bar and raised an eyebrow to see not one, but two bottles.

"Not at all; you'll have to try a lot harder than that to get me tipsy." He raised a finger. "Another firewhiskey, Rosy, when you get the chance."

The bartender waved her wand without even glancing over; a bottle whizzed across the bar and stopped in front of Dora, who popped open the cap with a quick spell. "Cheers," she said with a smirk, raising her bottle in the air.

"Mm. And to what are we drinking?"

"To the death of our sanity," he intoned solemnly.

She chuckled knowingly. "To Ministry bureaucracy and paperwork in triplicate."

"To the brilliant notion of locking up four hundred hormonal wizards in one castle and hoping for the best."

"To work?"

"To children?"

"Mm. I'll drink to that." They clinked their bottles together.

Two drinks, dinner, and several hours later, the newlyweds Flooed back into the castle (Rosmerta, of course, had long since set up a staff-and-family only connection for when the professors, er, had patronized her pub rather kindly) and made their way from the incoming-fireplace up to their apartment. Dora was smiling and giggling, and Remus's cheeks were flushed– a characteristic they acquired whenever he'd had a drink or two, and which he thought silly but which Dora thought rather adorable.

McGonagall was waiting for them when they arrived, sitting in the armchair by the roaring fire and working away at her knitting. "Edward is asleep," she informed them, gathering her needles and yarn. "I gave him his Wolfsbane, so you needn't wake him up for that."

"Thanks for watching him," Tonks said fervently.

"No trouble at all; he was an absolute darling. Good evening, Tonks, Remus."

They thanked her again and waited until she'd left, before Remus smiled mischievously and said, "Well, since Teddy's already asleep…"

"Mm. I love it when you're tipsy," Dora murmured with a wink. She was just going in to kiss him when a wail broke through the apartment.

Both sighed; Dora pinched the bridge of her nose. "Of course. He's a bloody _angel_ when McGonagall's around, but as soon as she leaves-"

"He'll be an excellent student one day," Remus quipped. "Go get ready for bed; I'll calm him down."

"Yeah?" He nodded, and she pecked his cheek. "Thanks, love."

Remus hurried over to the nursery as Dora disappeared into their bedroom. Teddy was throwing an unhappy fit; Remus sighed again and picked him up. "Now then," he murmured to the boy, "What seems to be the trouble, young man?" Teddy started rooting against his shirt, clearly mistaking father for mother, and Remus sighed. "Right. Hungry. Don't suppose you can be hungry when Aunt Minnie's here next time so mummy and daddy can have a nice evening?"

Teddy wailed his opinion in the contrary. Remus snorted and retrieved his wand from his pocket. _"Accio formula_."

The bottle of baby formula whizzed out of the kitchen cupboard, across the apartment and into his waiting hand. Remus caught it deftly and murmured a quick heating charm, managing to hold the unhappy Teddy, his wand, and the bottle all in his own two hands. Within a minute or so the formula was warm again, and he began to feed the child, talking amiably to him as he did so. "You know, one day you're going to ask us, ' _Mummy, Daddy, why don't I have any siblings?'_ And I will tell you without a moment's hesitation that it is simply your appalling timing." Teddy gurgled and suckled on the bottle, apparently not troubled by this warning. "Aunt Minnie told us you took all your Wolfsbane like a good boy; can't imagine how she got you to do it, but then, I'm not complaining."

Here he paused; the child didn't seem to mind. "…While your mum isn't listening," he said quietly, "I thought maybe we could have a little chat, yes? Man to man… wolf to pup." He swallowed. "Teddy, I- I know you're nowhere near old enough to understand this- but I love you, more than anything in the world except your mother. And I… I'm so sorry, Teddy, so very sorry that you will have to suffer the way I've suffered… I am so very grateful for you, my son, so desperately thankful, but at times I cannot help but detest myself for what I've done to you." He blinked hard. "Do you think you could ever forgive me for it, Teddy? Will you still love me, when you understand?"

Teddy stopped drinking and let out a little satisfied burp. Remus couldn't hold in a watery chuckle. "Sorry. This is all a bit much, isn't it? You'll have to pardon your old man; he gets a bit sentimental when he's had a few drinks in him." He smiled wistfully and lifted Teddy upright, patting his back soothingly. When it seemed the boy was content, he simply stood there, letting his son rest on his chest.

"It's alright," he murmured. "You can go back to sleep now, Teddy." The boy fidgeted tiredly. "Would you like a lullaby? I'm afraid I only know the one, and my voice isn't good… but I suppose beggars can't be choosers, can they?" He hesitated, and then began softly, _"There was an old woman tossed up in a basket, ninety-nine times as high as the moon._ _Where she was going I could not but ask it, for in her hand she carried a broom..."_

It was an old Welsh-English lullaby, especially popular among wizards in the region. His father and mother had each sang it to him in turn when he was very small, and even occasionally as an older boy when he was particularly unwell. Remus had to clear his throat, which had grown thick again, in order to continue. _"'Old woman, old woman, old woman' quoth I, 'Oh wither, oh wither, oh wither so high?' 'To sweep the cobwebs from the sky, but I'll be with you by and by.'"_

Teddy let out a contented little sigh; Remus smiled and set him gently back in the crib. "Goodnight, pup," he whispered. "Sleep well."

He turned to go, only to see Dora leaned up against the doorframe, smiling at him gently. "I didn't know you could sing," she whispered.

He raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you hear me? I can't."

"Mm. I thought it was lovely." Her eyes had misted slightly, although she was still smiling, and she wiped at them with the back of her hand. "Just lovely."

He inclined his head. "You're too kind. But thank you."

She chuckled and jerked her head sideways, and Remus followed her out into the living room. Dora closed the door softly behind them. "You know," she teased, poking him in the stomach, "I find a man who's good with children _highly_ attractive."

"Do you now?" She nodded, grinning, and he returned it, blushing. "Then why don't we go make a few more?"

She laughed and mussed his hair. "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

 **A/N: I know it's a long time in coming, but it's also a long chapter, so that has to count for something. Right?** **In all seriousness, I've been abroad, and it's been a wee bit difficult to work on my story as of late. Please review, and I'll see you all soon! Pax et bonum! -FFcrazy15**


	8. Chapter 8: The Return of Lavender Brown

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here.

 **Warnings: a creepy rendition of your favorite childhood story by one Fenrir Greyback (first section).**

* * *

The death eater fell to the ground in front of her, unconscious, and Lavender took a moment to push back her mop of sweaty blonde curls out of her face. Her heart was jackhammering in its ribcage; she glanced quickly out over the railing of the balcony behind her and saw that the Great Hall was filled with jets of colored light and a hundred figures twisting and turning in their own desperate, private battles. She'd just finished one or two of her own.

Oh Merlin, what was she _doing_ here? Lavender Brown wasn't a fighter by nature; she was a caretaker. She looked after people, kissed their owies away and- as of the last eight months- had played amateur healer to her fellow students while Madame Pomfrey was stuck helplessly under the watch of the Carrows. Now here she was, in the midst of bloody battle, and she hadn't half an idea of what to do.

She was beginning to wish she'd paid a bit more attention in Defense Against the Dark Arts.

A low noise, like a wild animal's growl, met her ears, and Lavender turned, glancing up the main staircase. She felt her blood freeze. A little fourth-year boy, a Gryffindor who'd obviously snuck back into the battle, was whimpering and seemingly wandless, frozen in his place. A large figure with greasy hair was prowling closer, like an animal on the hunt. Even as she watched, the boy began to cry.

"Hey!" she cried out, before she really knew what she was doing, and sent a quick stinging hex flying up the stairs. It hit the man directly in the back, and he let out a sharp howl of pain, whirling around. "You leave him alo- al-…" Her voice shook and died. Lavender noticed dimly that the boy took the opportunity to scamper, running for the corridor, but her relief at this was dashed as she realized whom exactly she'd just hexed.

Fenrir Greyback caught sight of her and grinned- a cruel, ruthless grin with teeth filed to a point. "Well now," he growled, "what have we here?"

Lavender waved her wand hastily; a stunning spell flew towards the man, but bounced off him like a weak _rictumsempra_. Her breath caught in her throat. _Oh no. Oh, no…_

"Hello, girl," the werewolf said, pacing down the stairs. His feet clunked with every step. "Now what's a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?"

"S-stay away from me." Her voice quavered; the thin stave of willow-wood shook in her hands.

The werewolf laughed. "Look at you. Trembling like a leaf." Another step; his nostrils flared, like a foxhound catching a scent.

 _"G-get back! Reducto!"_

He moved out of the way faster than she would have thought possible of such a hulking creature, like a wolf dodging an arrow. Lavender let out a whimper of fright. _"R-reducto. Reducto!"_

Two more blasts; chips of stone exploded from the stairs behind him, and he laughed again. "Didn't you ever hear the story of Little Red Cloak, girl?" She realized, too late, that he was carrying a stolen wand; with a jet of red light, her own went flying from her grasp. Lavender let out a low, choked moan of fear.

"There was once a little witch who went at dusk to her grandmother's cottage to bring her a potion," he began, stalking forward. "On the way, she came across a man. He had long, shiny teeth. He had long, sharp nails. He had big, yellow eyes, yellow as the coming harvest moon."

He took another step towards her, idle, almost careless; Lavender stumbled backwards towards the edge of the balcony. "He asked the stupid little witch where she was going. 'To grandmother's cottage to bring her her potion!'" His voice pitched itself eerily high, and then descended again to a growling chuckle. "She was a very stupid little girl. The man let her go on her way, but when the little witch arrived at the cottage, there was something wrong with grandmother."

He leered at her, yellow eyes glimmering with hunger. "Grandmother had long, white teeth. Grandmother had long, sharp nails. Grandmother's eyes were big and yellow. And the witch realized that Grandmother was not Grandmother at all. And do you know what the big, bad wolf told Little Red Cloak?"

Lavender cried out as she hit the railing of the balcony. The werewolf did not seem to notice. "He said, 'Pretty girls shouldn't go off all alone. Pretty girls should stay at home with their mothers. Pretty girls need to be rescued, and I don't see a woodsman around tonight, do you?'"

Lavender sobbed. "And then the big, bad wolf smiled his big, sharp smile," Greyback growled. "And he gobbled her _right up."_

The girl screamed.

The wolf lunged.

* * *

Lavender shot upright in bed, clawing at her sheets and bawling like an infant. _"Get him off me! Get him off me! Get him- get him-"_

It was several more minutes of sobbing and pleading before she realized where she was. When at last she caught sight of her bedroom walls- the rose-patterned wallpaper, the antique white vanity and dresser, the little figurines of unicorns and fairies perched on the shelves- she let out a low moan of relief and lay back down in her bed. _It was a dream,_ she thought to herself. _Just an awful dream._

Except, she realized a few moments later, it hadn't been. Lavender Brown shuddered and closed her eyes. That thing- that _beast-_

With almost violent swiftness, she threw off her feather duvet and sprang out of bed. A moment later she realized this had been a mistake, letting out a gasp of pain as her sore joints cried out in protest. Pausing to let the ache fade, she glanced around her bedroom, searching for a suitable distraction from her thoughts.

The room looked empty, the way it always did at the end of summer holiday when most of her possessions had been packed into her trunk, but it also looked… lonely, uninhabited. Too neat, really, with every little trinket or knick-knack tucked away in its proper place, evidence that no one had lived in it for quite some time. Her trunk sat at the end of her bed, already packed with her school uniforms and her books. Lavender hadn't purchased them herself, of course; she supposed that her mother had done so, when she wasn't at St. Mungo's clasping anxiously at her daughter's hand as if Lavender were (still) on her deathbed. In fact, the girl hadn't had time to visit anywhere at all, let alone Diagon Alley, as she'd only just returned home the night before due to St. Mungo's requests for additional testing.

Lavender hadn't objected to that in the slightest. Naturally, she hated being poked and prodded as much as anyone else (and to be honest she quite _abhorred_ needles) but she, too, wanted answers: answers to why fate had cheated her, why Greyback and his disease hadn't played fair, why _she_ was the exception to the rules of how, when and where a victim could be turned. Before, she wouldn't have cared one jot about what happened when an untransformed werewolf bit its prey. Now she was the case study, all thanks to one Fenrir Greyback.

With a sigh, she managed a sort of stiff shuffle over to the window and opened the rose-patterned curtains. Chinks of silvery moonlight poured in through the glass, painting the room shades of white and gray-blue shadow. The girl swallowed and looked up at the large waning moon, the great pearly orb reflecting a shining white in her gold eyes. She _detested_ her new eyes. Bright gold and almost hawkish, they reminded her so much of _him_ that for days afterwards, she had refused to look in a mirror. Her chocolate-brown irises had been one of her favorite features; now they, too, were gone. One more thing the first full moon had taken from her.

* * *

 _"…Here we are, my dear."_

 _Lavender stared at the heavy metal door with an unpleasant feeling in her stomach. Sister Anne, a young healer of about twenty-five, waved her wand at the door and Lavender heard a lock click open– a curious thing, considering she couldn't see one on the door. The healer noted her surprise and said by way of explanation, "It's on the inside; you can't get it open except with magic. Didn't want to take any chances, you see."_

 _Lavender did._

 _She waited as the healer turned the handle and opened the door, peering to catch her first glimpse of the room inside. "Come now, dear; it's perfectly safe," Sister Anne called over her shoulder, and the blonde witch dutifully followed her inside, still limping stiffly from a particularly nasty bite in her leg._

 _The room was… dismal, to say the least. The walls were probably clinical white when lit, but in the fading twilight from the window, appeared a dull gray. There was no light on the ceiling, nor any furniture; the room was entirely bare save for a small window at about eye-level, too tight for man or beast to squeeze through and barred to boot. On either side of the window was a metal basket with a locking lid, and a small clock, both fastened securely to the wall and at least six feet up. Long, gouging scratches covered the floor and the lower portion of the walls, and Lavender swallowed._

 _Sister Anne noticed her discomfort and set a hand on the girl's shoulder. "I know it looks dreadful," she said gently. "I keep telling Mother Maria we should at least put up a coat of paint, but there's not really funding for that sort of thing, I'm afraid."_

" _It could do with a nice throw rug or two," Lavender agreed aloud, and then bit her lip. A throw rug? Honestly? She knew full well the purpose of this room, and somehow, she got the sense that werewolves didn't really appreciate the nuances of fine décor._

 _Oh, Merlin's boots. What was she saying? This room wasn't for a "them," for some nameless "other," an unknown wizard waiting anxiously to find out his fate… no, tonight, this room was for her._

 _Anne saw her face change and sighed, pulling her into a hug. "Oh, you poor dear," she murmured. "Believe you me, if there were any other way… we can't risk the Wolfsbane now, I'm afraid, but I wish there was something more we could do for you." She drew back and looked the younger witch in the eyes. "No matter what happens, I want you to know that things will turn out alright in the end."_

 _Lavender's mouth trembled. "But what if-?"_

 _"No buts. Odds are we're all being right silly and you'll be just fine, but if not… well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now, you remember what you're to do?"_

 _"The moon rises at eight twenty-four," the blonde recited anxiously. "I'm to wait until half-past; if nothing happens, then I can unlock the door and leave. If not… if not, you'll collect me in the morning."_

 _"Good girl. Let me see, it's just past quarter-to, so you have a little under ten minutes to go. Try to relax, hm?"_

 _"Relax. Fine." Oh, Merlin._

 _Sister Anne squeezed her shoulder kindly and said, "Good luck, dear. I'll be here when you're through."_

 _"Thank you." It was the most she could muster; she suddenly felt very faint. Sister Anne gave her a smile and then left, shutting the door behind her. Lavender heard the lock click a few moments later, and then all was silent, save for the ticking of the clock. She glanced to it; eight-seventeen. Her heart gave a hard thump. Seven minutes._

 _Legs weak, she paced over to the window and made to open the small cage in which her wand was remain- hopefully, for no longer than the next quarter-hour. The cage was locked, but the key hung on a short chain from its side; impossible for a mindless beast to work open, but easy enough for a human. Unfortunately, her hands were shaking so terribly it took her three times just to get the key in the lock. When at last she'd managed it and had closed the cover again, she forced herself to glance to the clock. Her heart began to pound. Five minutes._

 _Oh, Merlin. Oh Merlin, oh Morgana, she couldn't do this. She couldn't be a werewolf, couldn't be the same sort of monster that cut her down with those awful, hungry eyes. This was just a precaution, she tried to remind herself, just a silly precaution, she was not a werewolf, she couldn't be, it hadn't been a full moon-_

 _She swayed and found her hand gripping the bars of the window, looking out over London. Her breath came in quick, shallow gasps, blood rushing through her ears. The twilight was growing lighter at the edge of the city to the east; the moon was near to rising. It struck her suddenly that the buildings blocking the view meant that the pain of the transformation itself, not the sight of the full moon, would be her first and only indication as to whether her greatest fears were true._

 _Her eyes slid to the clock; against her will she whimpered. Three minutes. The ticking of the clock seemed to intensify, and she looked to the growing twilight. Was this panic she felt the wolf's restlessness? Was the ache in her bones the beast struggling to get out? Was she already a monster?_

 _Two minutes. She sucked in a breath, but no air reached her lungs. Oh Merlin, oh please…_

 _One minute. Lavender whimpered again, tears in her eyes, gripping at the bars of the window._

 _Thirty seconds. Twenty. Ten._

 _Oh Merlin. Oh, please, no._

 _Nine._

 _Eight._

 _Seven._

 _Oh, please, oh, please-_

 _Six._

 _Five._

 _Four._

 _PLEASE-_

 _Three-_

 _Two-_

 _She let out a strangled sob, and her heart gave a last, final thud._

 _One._

 _Pain split through her spine, agony as acute as if she had been shocked with a bolt of electricity. She screamed as her bones broke and lengthened, reordering themselves, fur was sprouting from her hands and pain and fear were filling her mouth, her nose and she could smell the blood, she needed to feed, oh no, oh, no no NO PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE–_

 _But the beast didn't listen. The beast took over, raging, devouring, and then everything was madness and blood._

* * *

Wrenched from her memories, Lavender shuddered again and pressed a hand to her mouth, suddenly feeling quite ill. Five full moons. Five transformations into the _thing,_ the terrifying, animalistic form that confirmed that she was now the same sort of brutish creature that had viciously savaged her four months previous. That first transformation, without the Wolfsbane, had been…. had been horrifying. Waking up the morning after was even worse. Perhaps it was just her dramatic sentimentality, but Lavender had even given that day a name: _May 6th, The Day Life Took a Turn for the Absolute Worst._

 _Mm._ She wrinkled her nose a bit. Definitely dramatics.

But then, didn't she have a bit of a right to dramatics at the moment? Lavender Brown was _not_ the sort of person you expected to get turned into a werewolf. She wasn't _tragic_ or _unfortunate,_ she was pretty and vivacious and (on her worst days) maybe a tad shallow _._ Bad things didn't _happen_ to her, not until last year. But then, bad things were happening to everyone then so that didn't really count. Now…

Voldemort was dead. This was peacetime. Wasn't everything supposed to be better now?

She glanced up to the sky imploringly. The moon glittered down at her coldly in the crisp autumn air and didn't answer. With another exhausted sigh, she glanced to the clock; it was nearly half-three. She knew she really ought to go back to bed, make up some of the lost sleep from the transformation two nights previous, but she couldn't. Perhaps it was the nightmare, or the restless call of the moon in her blood, still strong just two nights after her latest transformation.

As a compromise, she settled into the white rocking chair next to the window and began combing through her blonde ringlets with her fingers. The sleeves of her nightdress fell back as she did so, the moon bathing her white, scarred arms with light, like veined marble. Her whole body bore the marks of who and what she was: most, like the jagged, rippled cords that cut across her face, were evidence of Greyback's attack. A few of the others, including four on her arms and six on her legs, she had inflicted upon herself. The Sisters of St. Mungo had tended her as best they could– they were exceptionally kind people, never too proud to tend to a poor soul in need, even if their patient was a werewolf– but the cursed wounds could never fully heal.

Lavender curled up in the chair, sniffling despite herself and not really caring if she looked pathetic. The scars were no mere deformity, nor the badges of honor worn proudly by a war hero. No, her scars marked her as a monstrosity, an outcast from society, a beauty-turned-beast. The wolf lived inside her now, and nothing would _ever_ root it out again.

* * *

It was many hours later when her eyes fluttered open again, squinting in the bright sunlight. She supposed she must have fallen asleep at some point; the few hours' rest had done wonders for her mood, but the tight knot of worry returned when she recalled the day's coming events. The dreaded date had finally come to pass, for it was now the third day after the full moon and time for her to return to school.

With a sigh, Lavender arose rocking chair and set about getting ready for the day. With great precision, she dressed in her nicest school uniform, did her makeup and clipped a bow into her curly hair. There was no way to hide the scars or disguise what she was, but that hardly excused one from trying her best to look presentable.

Her mother was waiting with tea, fried eggs and lemon scones when she came downstairs for a late breakfast. "I had Trinky make your favorite," she informed her daughter with a cheerfulness that almost masked her nervousness. "The first day of term is a big day, and a girl should be properly fed for it."

"Ooh, lovely; thank you," Lavender said eagerly, taking a fried egg and a scone. Trinky's cooking, in her opinion, had always surpassed those of the school house-elves. "Where's Papa?"

"He had to go in early to work today; he said to tell you he was sorry he couldn't see you off."

Lavender nodded, although she wasn't sure she believed it. Her father had been altogether too silent and distant for the last four months, and though it hurt, she couldn't really blame him for being repulsed. Lavender knew full well she was lucky to still have a family. Everyone had heard the stories of what happened to werewolves who were thrown out in the streets: homeless, unable to find jobs or education, many were forced to run with a pack and give in to the beast just to survive. She felt a shiver of revulsion run down her back. Hunching in caves, covered in grime and muck and eating her meat raw– now _that_ was no way to live.

"It's a shame you have to start a week late," her mother continued primly, apparently unaware of her daughter's spinning thoughts, "but I'm sure your classmates will help you catch up. That Hermione Granger is in your year, isn't she? She could help you."

Lavender scowled. "I don't think Granger is going to want to help me, Mum." The woman tilted her head in confusion, and Lavender clarified, "She's dating Ron Weasely now, remember? It's been in all the papers." _Even if she did save my life..._

"Oh, of course. Well, you must do your best anyway." She clucked her tongue. "Besides, you'll get to see all your other little friends! Aren't you excited?"

"Er- yes. Terribly excited." Trust her mother, Lavender thought privately, to announce her doomsday like a pleasant noon luncheon. The girl had no desire whatever to reunite with any of her "little friends." She had been somewhat cloistered in St. Mungo's for the large majority of the summer; aside from receiving a list of the surviving and deceased of the May battle, she'd had no contact with the outside world in the slightest. This was, in fact, by her own design: she had requested of the healers that no one be allowed to see her save her family, and had adamantly refused to return any of Parvati or Padma's owls. She knew it was silly- knew full well that eventually the truth of what she was would come out- but she wanted to put off the moment from when she had many friends to when she dropped to exactly zero for as long as possible.

Isolation, however, did not suit Lavender well, and in the end she had struck up a certain friendship with several of the healers who worked the Llewellyn Ward, including Sister Anne, who liked to cheer her patients up by singing whenever she came into the ward, and Mother Maria Faustina, the Superior of the Order of St. Mungo and, consequentially, the head of the hospital. Mother Maria was a force to be reckoned with (or, better yet, not reckoned with), as she ran her hospital like a convent of old and tolerated no nonsense from lay-healer or nun alike. While Sister Anne had been the one to comfort the distraught Lavender after the May full moon, it was Mother Maria who had talked sense into her terrified parents:

 _"Now listen here, the both of you– oh, for goodness' sake, Mrs. Brown, take the hanky if you need it!– I understand full well that this is a tragedy and a shock, but the two of you need to pull yourselves together, and you need to do it quickly. I have seen too many people, good people with families and loved ones, be abandoned in this very ward because of fear and misunderstanding, and I won't stand for it today. Whatever her illness, your daughter is no more a dark creature than you or I; quite the contrary, she is a brave and strong young lady, and any parent should be proud to have her."_

"Lavender? Lavender, dear, are you listening to me?"

She started and looked across the table. Her mother was frowning with concern. "Sorry, Mum. Suppose I drifted off for a bit; what were you saying?"

Her mother frowned a bit deeper, but only said, "I was just wondering when the Headmistress was expecting you?"

"Twelve sharp, Mum." She checked the clock; it was already half-eleven. "I'd best go fetch my trunk, yes?"

"Oh, nonsense; finish your breakfast. I'll get your things."

She watched her mother disappear up the stairs, before hastily helping herself to three more fried eggs, desperate for anything with protein. She wolfed- er- _bolted_ them down before her mother could reappear at the top of the stairs, levitating the trunk with her wand. Lavender hastily dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and took a bite of her scone.

Soon enough, it was nearing noon, and her mother was anxiously waiting beside the fireplace, checking and re-checking the floo powder in the little crystal dish atop the white-molded mantelpiece. "Are you ready, darling?" she called to where Lavender was still sitting at the dining room table, the eggs and scones long since gone cold.

 _Not actually, no._ Of course, she could hardly say _that,_ and so she replied as pleasantly as she could manage, "Coming, mum."

Her mother handed her a pinch of green powder as she approached, trunk tilted up on its end. "Now remember to keep good hold of that trunk; we wouldn't want it to end up in some random stranger's fireplace in Scotland, would we?"

"No, Mum."

"And be good for your teachers- and keep out of trouble-" She straightened her daughter's collar, a bit flustered. "And darling- if you ever need anything-"

"I _know_ , Mum," she reassured her. "Besides, I'll be alright."

Her mother smiled a little uncertainly. "That's my good girl." She reached out to touch her daughter's cheek, and then thought better of it when Lavender flinched, patting her shoulder instead. "Oh, before you go…" She waved her wand; a magazine came flying across the room. Lavender caught it and gasped.

 _"Witch Weekly?_ But the next issue isn't due until Friday; you never let me see it early!"

Her mother winked. "The editor can break her own rules every now and again." She nodded to the fireplace. "Go on, we wouldn't want to be late for Professor McGonagall."

Lavender managed a small giggle. "Right." She kissed her mother on the cheek, and then tossed the powder into the fireplace. Green flames erupted, and she stepped inside. "Hogwarts, Headmistress's Hearth!"

The hearth promptly began to spin around her at a dizzying pace. She caught one last sight of her mother's worried face, before the sitting room vanished from sight. A hundred half-glimpses of other people's houses and lives flashed past her eyes, before she came to an abrupt halt and stumbled out of the fireplace onto a red carpet, coughing slightly as ash tickled her throat.

Professor McGonagall glanced up from her paperwork. "Good afternoon, Miss Brown."

"Hello, Professor." She noted, with no mild relief, that McGonagall only briefly glanced over her scars, a flicker of pity crossing her face, before nodding firmly and rising to her feet, a thin file in hand.

"Here you are," she said smartly, handing the file to Lavender. "That's your class schedule and any of your missed assignments. Mind you sign the schedule and file it with your Head of House straightaways; he's in class at the moment, but he has a break at quarter-past. You have the rest of the day to settle in, but you are expected in class tomorrow morning. Professor Slughorn will be providing you with Wolfsbane each month, and you're to report to the Hospital Wing two hours before moonrise for each transformation; Madame Pomfrey has had a special room made up for you. You can leave your trunk here; I'll have it sent up to your dormitory."

All of this information came so quickly that the girl blinked, taking a moment to sort it all through. "Oh. Um, yes. Thank you."

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Naturally. Oh, and I'll have the house elves leave a set of nickel tableware on your nightstand before lunch. I would suggest keeping them in your school bag."

"Ah. Yes." She hadn't even thought of that. "Well, er, I suppose I'd best be going then?"

"Indeed. Have a good day, Miss Brown."

Lavender realized that this was a dismissal. As she headed for the door, she glanced back. McGonagall had returned to her paperwork. "Er- Professor?"

The Headmistress glanced up. Lavender hesitated, and then concluded, "…Thank you, truly. I know that- well, I'm sure letting me back in wasn't a very popular decision."

The professor's face was inscrutable, but Lavender thought she saw a hint of a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. "You're quite welcome, Miss Brown."

* * *

Remus Lupin waited until the last student closed the classroom door behind them, and let out a low sigh and sank wearily into his desk chair.

He had a headache. Well, that wasn't surprising; he hadn't slept well the night before the transformation and of course he could rarely manage anything more than a light doze in his wolfish form, but this was not helped by the fact that Teddy had been restless and fussy all the last two days following the transformation. While Dora had handled it the first night, he'd insisted on taking care of Teddy during the second, knowing his wife had had an extraordinarily long first full day back at work. Still, a sleepless night was a sleepless night, and now the fatigue of three of them in the same week was washing over him.

Just as he was about to retreat up to his office (and the nice, cushy armchair he'd installed therein), a silvery-white light jumped through his door. He groaned against his will, and the patronus tabby raised an eyebrow.

"You're looking peaky," the cat informed him, rather unnecessarily, in McGonagall's voice. "Are you sure you oughtn't cancel lessons?"

"I already took off Monday; couldn't very well do it again," he replied ironically. "I'll just catch a quick kip during lunch."

"Mm. I'm afraid that might have to wait, Remus; Miss Brown's just flooed in, and she'll be up any minute now."

Suddenly he was wide-awake. "Lavender's arrived?"

"Indeed she has. I told her your class ended at quarter-past; she needs to file her class schedule." The tabby looked as if it wanted to say something more, but held its tongue.

Remus understood. "Of course," he agreed with a nod. "Don't worry, Professor; I'll take care of it."

"Thank you, Remus. I'll have Poppy send you down a pepper-up potion in an hour."

"Really, Professor, you needn't-" But his protestations fell on deaf ears; the cat leapt gracefully back through the door and disappeared.

Remus sighed and lowered his head onto his arms. Hopefully Lavender would afford him at least ten minutes; three sleepless nights in a row was not his ideal style of teaching.

Precisely eight and a half minutes later, he heard his door squeak against the frame, and quickly sat up straight again. His heartbeat quickened, and he realized that he was anxious. Five years and so many changes had passed since last he'd seen this particular student, and he wasn't quite sure what he ought to say to help her. Saying a quick prayer for inspiration, he watched the door and waited with baited breath.

The door opened the rest of the way, and a young woman paced into the room, head down, curly honey-blonde hair swept in front of her face and a class file clutched protectively to her chest. "I'm, ah, I'm here to check in with my head of house?" she said hesitantly, face still half-hidden from view.

"Of course," Remus replied, and found to his relief that his voice sounded quite at ease. "Miss Brown, am I correct?"

Lavender glanced up, startled; it was only after she'd raised her head that the professor saw the startlingly bright gold eyes, even more distinctive than his amber-hazel own, and- more shockingly- the three knotted, white scars, crossing diagonally down her face from left to right. "Professor Lupin!" she exclaimed, and instantly seemed a little more at ease. "I hadn't realized- I thought-"

"McGonagall must not have told you; I've been reinstated- promoted as well, actually. Quite understandable, my dear." He smiled kindly. "I suppose you have all your courses laid out for the semester?"

"Um, yes- here-" She reached into the file and pulled out a fresh half-sheet of parchment, on which were written several course descriptions in McGonagall's fluid script. "She just said to file it with the head of house…"

"Very good; just let me see that, then…" She handed it to him, and he glanced it over; all core classes, plus Divination and Care of Magical Creatures. "Everything appears to be in order; I'll just file this and send a copy back to the Headmistress."

She nodded. "Thank you… do you, er, do you happen to know where I could find Professor Slughorn?" She flushed slightly and lowered her eyes, before she seemed to remember to whom exactly she was speaking and looked up hesitantly.

"Yes, I believe he'll be starting class in a few minutes down in the dungeons- although I wouldn't fret, my dear, we have a few more weeks before we need any potion, yes?" He offered her a smile.

She returned it with a half-smile of her own. "Right. Well, I'll try not to forget."

It was an ironic statement, one that only the two of them in the entire school could possibly understand. Forgetting the date was a tad difficult when every day was a countdown to the next full moon. He wasn't at all surprised when her smile slipped, and the girl bit her lip hesitantly. "Er- Professor, has anyone told the others about, well…"

"Your dorm-mates were informed of your condition yesterday evening," Remus replied carefully. "I am sorry we did so without your permission, but I've found from personal experience that it's better not to spring this sort of information on one's friends, especially ones you happen to live with."

"Right," Lavender said again nervously. "And, er, how did they take it?"

"I'm afraid I didn't actually have the honors," said Lupin apologetically. "But I would imagine that Hermione Granger, at least, was not terribly upset by the revelation."

"Oh." The girl looked a bit queasy; Remus recalled that Hermione had been the one to defend her from Greyback, as well as the fact that Lavender was the girl Ron had been seeing two years previous. "Well then." She swallowed. "I suppose I'd better go down to lunch…"

She looked as if this prospect was entirely unappetizing; Remus could empathize. Stepping into a crowded Great Hall was no way to have a whole school find out about terrifying diseases and the like. "If you want," he said kindly, "I could have one of the house-elves send you up a little something to eat."

Lavender blinked a little, startled, and then nodded. "That would be _wonderful,"_ she agreed fervently. "Thank you, Professor."

"No trouble, my dear, no trouble. Why don't you go settle in? I imagine you're still quite tired; I know I am."

"I think I will, thank you. Good afternoon, Professor."

As Lavender turned to go, he impulsively added, "Lavender?" She turned back, startled. He hesitated, and then stood. "As head of house, I'm entrusted with the duty of ensuring the health and wellbeing of all my students," he said calmly. "If you are ever in need of anything, please, don't hesitate to ask."

Lavender stared for a moment, and then managed a small smile. "…Thank you, Professor. I will. Have a nice day."

"You as well, Lavender." She nodded, looking a great deal more at ease, and then slipped outside the office, closing the door behind him.

Remus waited until he heard her footsteps pacing down the stone hall, before turning and trudging up the stairs to his office. He checked the clock and found it was half-past. _Excellent._ At least thirty minutes for a nap.

He set the bells to chime extra-loudly at one, and then slumped happily into his armchair and closed his eyes. After a moment, he winked one open and waved his wand at the door, muttering an anti-patronus charm for good measure.

* * *

It was quarter to six when the sound of padding footsteps on the stairs roused Lavender from her sleep. She'd been dozing on her four-poster, the latest copy of _Witch Weakly,_ opened to the new section on dress robes, resting on her stomach. Quickly, she sat up and listened intently. It was one of the few perks of being a werewolf: all of her senses were heightened, including her hearing, and she could easily distinguish to whom each set of footsteps belonged. There were four of them: the first, light and graceful, were undoubtedly Parvati Patil's; the second, quick and sharp, those of Hermione Granger; and the last two, heavy for one and mouse-like shuffling for the other, belonged to Eloise Midgen and Fay Dunbar, respectively.

A moment after these revelations had impressed themselves upon her, the door opened, and the four girls came in. Lavender quickly hid her face in the magazine.

"-I don't think I can _take_ any more of those outside lessons," Eloise complained loudly.

"You can't very well expect not to be cold if you won't wear a cloak," Hermione reproved. "Besides, it's Care of Magical Creatures; it wouldn't exactly be safe to study fire crabs inside, would it?"

"Oh, what do _you_ know about it; you're in Arrithma-" Eloise stopped short. So did the other three. Lavender determinedly stared at a mauve robe with a matching hat and waited for someone to speak.

"Er- hi, Lavender," Hermione said hesitantly. "Nice to see you again."

The blonde girl glanced up, startled, and Hermione felt as if someone had kicked her in the stomach. Lavender's face, once so perfectly maintained by any number of skin-care potions and blemish-removing charms, was now marred by three long, puckered scars. As if this were not enough, her formerly brown eyes had now turned to a bright amber-gold. Lavender quickly looked down again to the magazine, the honey curls sweeping in front of her face like a veil. "Oh, um, hi, Hermione," she said uneasily.

The brunette witch glanced around to the other girls; Eloise and May were both staring open-mouthed; Parvati looked stunned to silence. Swallowing, she summoned her Gryffindor courage and walked over to Lavender's bed, stopping right in front of her. "Well, thank goodness you're back," she said firmly, and offered the blonde a warm smile when she looked up again, surprised. "I suppose you've gotten all your missed assignments?"

"Um, yes, but I haven't started them."

"Oh, that's no trouble; it's been mostly review work all week anyway, you know how it is, you should be able to get most of it done by tomorrow tonight if you start early-" She broke off suddenly, flushing. "Er- sorry."

"That's alright," Lavender giggled, sounding a little at last like her old self. "You spent the better part of a year traipsing around Great Britain; you've probably gotten used to micromanaging."

"Maybe just a bit." Hermione grinned and reached into her book-bag. "I'll get you my notes."

While Granger was distracted, Lavender took the opportunity to look over to her (former?) best friend. "Hello, Parvati," she said nervously.

"Hi," the Indian witch replied, looking just as uncertain. "Er- how're you doing?" Even as she said it, she winced.

"Fine." She tried to keep her tone airy and light, but she wasn't sure how well she was succeeding. "Bit tired, that's all."

At last, Parvati's resolve seemed to weaken, and she let out a sigh, hurrying over. "Oh, Lav, why didn't you just _tell_ me?" she pleaded. "I was so worried, and you weren't answering any of my letters-"

"I didn't know how you'd react," Lavender answered, a bit miserably. "I thought- I mean-"

"You thought I wouldn't want to be friends with you."

The unspoken question hung in the air. After a moment, Parvati sat down on the bed beside her and hugged her fiercely.

"Of course I still want to be friends with you," she said sincerely, drawing back. "You're a hero, Lavender. I'm proud of you; we all are!"

"You mean it?" She nodded, and Lavender smiled. "You're the best, Vati."

Parvati waved her hand airily. "It's nothing." Suddenly, she seemed to notice the magazine and gasped. "Is that the new issue?"

"The very newest. Mum just gave it to me it this morning."

"Ooh, I heard there was supposed to be a section on winter cloaks! Can I see?" Without waiting for an answer, she picked up the magazine and began flipping through the pages.

And suddenly, it was like the whole last year had never happened. Hermione was fretting over schoolwork, Parvati was avidly memorizing the latest trends, and Eloise and Fay-

She glanced over at the last two. Eloise's face had gone quite stiff, and Fay was nearly hiding behind her, an expression of dull terror in her eyes.

Hermione had noticed it, too, and had straightened up, three or four books balanced on her hip. "Is there a problem?" she inquired coolly.

"No, not at all," Eloise sniffed, in that way that Lavender had so often sniffed herself. It was a woman's way of insinuating that she meant the exact opposite of what she'd just said.

Hermione raised an eyebrow and set down her books on the nightstand. "I thought we discussed this last night."

 _"You_ two discussed it," Eloise said coldly. _"We_ didn't say anything."

Hermione's eyes flashed dangerously. "And we took your silence for agreement."

"Well, then you jumped to the wrong conclusion, didn't you?" retorted Eloise spitefully.

Parvati was glancing between the two nervously. Lavender felt sick. She'd grown up with Eloise, shared a dormitory with her for seven years. Sure, they'd never been best friends, but they'd never openly disliked each other, either.

"Well, don't let me hold you back," Hermione challenged. "Clearly you've got something to say; don't beat around the bush."

"Alright then!" Eloise threw her bag down on the ground. "I always knew you had weird little soft spot for house elves and the like, Granger, but I thought the _girl genius_ would be smart enough to realize that even pity has its limit! It's bad enough McGonagall hired one of them as a professor, but this, _this_ is crossing the line!" She flung a pointed finger like a judge in Lavender's direction. "Maybe _you're_ going to get all friendly with the monster in the next bed, but I for one have a little _concern_ about sharing a room with a _werewolf!"_

Her words seemed to ring in the air, bouncing off the walls. Lavender winced. Well, she couldn't blame Eloise; she probably would have felt the same way, were things the other way around…

Apparently Hermione felt differently. "Oh, is that all! Well in case it slipped your vapid little mind, Eloise, that _werewolf_ just so happens to be a war hero!"

"I don't care if it's the bloody Minister of Magic; I don't want it in my room!"

 _"'It? It?_ She's not an _it,_ you twit, she's our friend!" Hermione had gone red with fury. "Who was it that fixed your makeup for the Yule Ball? Who was it that gave you her best hanky when you broke up with Terry Boot?"

"That _thing_ isn't Lavender anymore!"

"And _who was it_ , Eloise," the witch continued as if she hadn't heard, "that stayed behind to fight while _you_ went scampering off to safety? The only reason she was turned was because _she_ was brave enough to take on Fenrir Greyback himself, and survived to tell the tale!"

"Maybe it would have been better if she hadn't," said Eloise nastily.

Hermione let out a gasp of anger; Partvati leapt to her feet. Lavender had closed her eyes at that statement, tears burning behind the lids, and for that reason she heard rather then saw the sharp _crack_ as Parvati Patil crossed the room in two strides and slapped Eloise Midgen across the face.

She opened her eyes, startled, just in time to see the girl stumble back in shock. "Why you-!"

"Don't you _ever_ talk about her like that!" Parvati cried furiously. "Don't you dare, Eloise Midgen, or- or next time, I'll curse you!"

Eloise gaped, and then turned to Hermione. "You're Head Girl! Aren't you going to do something about that?"

"Maybe," she replied indifferently. "Although I rather wish I'd done it first."

Eloise glared, seething. "I am not sharing a room with that _thing._ Either she goes, or I go."

"She doesn't have to leave. She's a student just like the rest of us," said Hermione pitilessly. "And if you have a problem sleeping here, by all means, take a couch in the common room."

Eloise scoffed, and then looked over to Parvati, who had crossed her arms in the same determined fashion. Lavender sat there uncomfortably, as if not quite certain whether she ought to speak up for herself. Eloise closed her mouth and lifted her nose.

"Fine. Come on, Fay."

The brunette stammered out something incomprehensible, but shut up at her friend's look and followed her out of the room. The door slammed behind them.

The pair turned to look at Lavender, who seemed tongue-tied. At last, she managed, "…You didn't have to-"

"Yes, we did," Hermione cut in sharply. "There's no rule in the book that says werewolves aren't welcome here; if they don't like it, they should cope, not you." She glanced over to Parvati and added ruefully, "I'm afraid I _do_ have to punish you for that somehow, you know; if she goes to McGonagall I need some proof that I tried to handle the situation."

"It was worth it," said Parvati viciously. "Not share a room with Lavender! Ooh, that absolute _cow!_ I'd rather not share a room with _her!"_

Hermione nodded. "Let's see… I think doing lines would be sufficient." Adopting a very teacher-ish voice, she instructed, "Parvati Patil, I want you to write, _I will not smack stupid little twits, not even if they really deserve it,_ ten times, and do try to do it neatly."

Parvati snorted. "Gladly." She fetched a quill and scrap of parchment from her bag, and set to writing her 'lines' with such savagery that Lavender thought she might poke through the paper.

The werewolf glanced to Hermione shyly. "Thank you. I know I didn't deserve that- especially not after everything with Ron-"

"Water under the bridge," said Hermione dismissively. "Besides, someone needed to set her straight."

"And you… you really don't mind? Sharing a dormitory, I mean. For all you know, I _could_ be dangerous…"

Hermione snorted. "Lavender. I once listened to you ramble on for half an hour about hair bows. _Hair bows._ You'll pardon me if I'm not trembling at the sight of you."

Lavender giggled. "Alright. Well… thanks again."

"Don't worry about it. Now, about the history homework…"

As the girl genius began to _ramble on_ a bit herself about the elven wars of 1436, Lavender couldn't help but smile. Well, the day hadn't been a _complete_ bust: Eloise and Fay were a loss, it was true, but she still had a few friends, people who would stand by her through thick and thin and even lycanthropy.

In the end, she thought pleasantly as she began copying Hermione's notes, maybe that was the point of friendship, anyhow.

* * *

"Remus. Remus, love, you need to wake up…"

He groaned and muttered something indistinct. A hand shook him gently by the shoulder, and the voice said again, "Come on, Remus; I don't want to have to levitate you back to the apartment…"

Confused, he opened his eyes. Dora was looking down at him with a small, almost pitying smirk, a happily cooing Teddy balanced on her hip. His eyes drifted lazily to the window. It was dark outside, and a waning gibbous moon was shining through the glass.

A thrill of terror shot through him, and he leapt to his feet, much to the surprise of his wife and son. "Merlin's beard! What time is it?"

"Quarter past seven."

"Quarter past- oh, _Merlin!_ I've missed all my classes!"

"Nonsense; I took them for you," Dora replied calmly.

 _"You_ took-" He shook his head, disoriented. "But how-"

"Madame Pomfrey took one look at you and said what you needed was a good rest," Dora said with a firm nod. "So I popped on down here with Teddy and read your lecture notes for the class." At his scandalized expression, she scoffed. "Oh come on, Remus, it was just redcaps and pixies! You can do the practical bits with them next lesson."

"That's not the point," he moaned. "That's two days of classes I've missed now!"

"You only missed the second half of the day," she replied primly. He shot her a look, and she raised an eyebrow. "Well, now we've learned our lesson about pulling an all-nighter just two days after a transformation instead of letting me take care of Teddy, haven't we?"

He glowered.

 _"Haven't we?"_

Remus sighed and lowered his head. "Yes, dear."

"Good man." She patted his cheek with her free hand. "Come back with me; I've made you soup."

He perked up a bit at that. "Beef and potatoes?"

"Of course." As they walked down the stairs into his classroom, she added conversationally, "You know, one of these days I'm going to work that 'noble pratt' instinct out of you."

"Doubtful. I'm a Gryffindor, born and raised."

"Mm. And I'm a Hufflepuff, meaning that I don't give up easily." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and added, "But don't worry: you're _my_ noble pratt."

"Mm. I think maybe I can live with that."

She chuckled and switched Teddy to her other hip. "By the way, McGonagall mentioned that Brown girl came in today. How did it go?"

Remus sighed and rubbed his head. "Well enough. I just wish I knew what else I could do to help her." At his wife's confused look, he clarified, "I hardly remember a time before I was turned, Dora; I grew up with this, learned to deal with it before I even understood what prejudice meant. That girl… I can't imagine having to accept this after years and years of being ordinary, of being accepted and welcomed by the world without a second thought. I have no idea what I should even say to her."

"Well, if I know you," the auror said gently, "when the time comes, you'll figure it out."

Lupin managed a wry smile. "Thank you for your vote of confidence."

Dora laughed and tugged at the sleeve of his jumper, nearly pulling him down the hall. "Come on; I don't want my soup to cool. Mama's big puppy needs his dinner."

"I am _not_ your puppy."

"Then why do you wag your tail when I scratch your ears?"

He choked, mortified. "You swore you'd never mention that again!" She laughed and tweaked his ear, before taking off down the hall with Teddy in tow, leaving Remus to chase after. _"Dora!"_

* * *

 **A/N: Meh, not one of my favorite chapters. Still, how did I do writing Lavender? Honestly, she was unexpectedly difficult to pull off: writing tragedy on someone so, well,** _ **un-tragic**_ **is a hassle and a half! Please review!**


	9. Chapter 9: Making Decisions

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here.

 **Warnings: difficult and controversial social issues (abortion, genetic disease, etc.). Also, language  
**

 _ **A/N:** **PLEASE READ!**_ **This chapter is not at all meant to be a condemnation of anyone who has had or has encouraged someone else to have an abortion. I know that more often than not it is a decision made out of fear, embarrassment, and, as regards this particular issue, oftentimes a real desire to spare the child itself any suffering in later life.**

 **Paige is** _ **not** __**(I REPEAT: NOT!)**_ **meant to represent those people in the slightest; rather, she is a symbol of the mentality which doesn't consider children with certain genetic disorders to be worthwhile human beings. This is an** _ **apologia**_ **both against that mentality and the mentality that a life which contains great suffering is not a life worth lived.**

 **A/N 2: …I have no excuse. Sorry for the long wait. But hey, it's a long chapter! (A loooooong chapter!).  
**

* * *

Nymphadora 'Tonks' Lupin's first full day back at work was in one way fascinating, in another way wonderful, and in a third way one of the worst days of her life.

It bears some importance to mention that, prior to then, Kingsley had kept her largely on paperwork or private missions, helping to round up a few of the less dangerous Riddle supporters and bring them in for questioning. This was her first day back in the bullpen, her first foray into the job she'd resigned a little more than a year previous, and she was excited to pin the badge back on her robes and get back to what she was good at: catching bad guys and looking as absolutely kickass as possible while doing so.

The only regret she had was leaving behind her baby boy. Tonks had been adamant (and Remus had heartily agreed) that their child would not be raised by sitters and nannies. "It's one thing when it's a genocidal maniac out to kill my family and friends," Tonks had told Kingsley stoutly when he offered her her old position, "but I'm a mum first and an auror second. Either we work the schedule so that Teddy isn't alone, or I'm not coming back."

Thankfully, Kingsley and McGonagall had understood; a student babysitter would watch Teddy from nine to ten on Tuesdays and Thursdays; after that, either she or Remus would be with him all day, and all three would spend Sundays together. Still, even though she knew Remus was more than capable of handling the little bundle of shape-shifting joy, she couldn't help but miss her child. Saving England may have been her work, but her family was her life and heart.

Most of the Hogwarts hearths were only able to make firecalls, not a full transportation out of the school. But the teacher's lounge had a special hearth, just one, which allowed specifically registered users to get to specifically registered places. As a general rule, this hearth was used to allow seventh-years to get to their internships without having to walk down past the gate and apparate, but McGonagall had kindly included Tonks's name and genetics into the list of approved operators and gave her an easy passage into the heat of the Ministry. So it was that, at quarter to nine on Thursday morning, everyone's favorite metamorphagus found herself throwing a pinch of green power into the ashes and stepping inside as the fireplace roared to life.

One whirlwind of a journey later, the emerald flames vanished and she stepped out of the onyx hearth into the bustling ministry foyer, and she let out a sigh, breathing in the taste of pure and unadulterated frantic activity. Now _this_ was London.

Wizards and witches rushed every which way, levitating stacks of papers, discussing regulations, and complaining about the bad tea in the break rooms. Flocks of purple memos whizzed by overhead in hyper-speed migration, crowding into the elevators like miniscule purple airplane squadrons. She quickly crammed into the nearest one and pulled the lever for the second level.

"Tonks!" a voice said to her side, and she looked over, startled. A young man by name of Widgens, who worked in the Improper Use of Magic Office, was grinning back at her. "Glad to see you back! How's the baby?"

"Widgens! Fine, Teddy's just fine. He's with Remus today; goodness knows if the man'll get any work done with him around," she replied with a laugh. Several other people in the elevator shifted uncomfortably, but Widgens was still smiling brightly.

"That's wonderful! Teddy, huh? For your dad, I suppose." His face sobered. "Sorry, Tonks. I shouldn't have–"

"No, it's fine," she replied generously. "I think my dad would've been proud. How's the office doing?"

"Oh, we're all fine. Auror's Office is doing alright, too, even without an interim chief."

"Bloody basilisks, don't tell me Kingsley still hasn't appointed anyone?"

"Well, he's just got someone in for the Department this morning, but the Office is still feeding their paperwork in through the DMLE."

Tonks sighed. "Well, I guess he's bound to be busy, what with the reconstruction and everything." The elevator dinged; Tonks pointedly ignored the relieved sighs that came from the others as the pair stepped off. "Thanks for the update, Widgens; it's good to know what fresh chaos I'm walking into."

"Sure thing, Tonks. Have a good day, yeah?"

"Will do."

He tipped her his hat and walked off. The witch turned to the oak-paneled French doors which led into the department and took a deep breath. Squaring her shoulders, she pushed the doors wide open.

The familiar cacophony of typewriters, aimless chatter and bureaucracy met her ears. Tonks grinned and stuck her wand behind her ear. _Mama's back._

"Tonks!" a voice called, and she looked over. Meg Coburn, the department clerk to the courts, was hurrying up to her, a wide grin on her face. Tonks laughed and hugged her. "I can't believe you're back already!"

"Ah, well, you know me; can't let a bunch of two-bit blood purists and a sickbed keep me down."

"I heard that bitch Bellatrix got you pretty good," Meg said, with obvious concern.

Tonks rolled her eyes. "Caught me while my back was turned. Would've had me, too, if Remus hadn't come in when he did."

Meg nodded, her face sudden drawn and serious. "And is it true? You got her?"

Tonks took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah, Meg. I got her." _Now that's a fight I'll never forget._ The thought still sometimes woke her up at night: what could've been if she hadn't taken the witch down, what would have become of her motherless child…

"Well, that's over and done with," the other witch said, with obvious relief. "C'mon; your desk's still where it ought to be."

Tonks followed her back through the bullpen to where her desk was, next to a synthetic window, which was streaming in happy sunlight on the hardwood and the gleaming back ministry typewriter. The London street "below" her was cheerfully busy. "I'm afraid the last bloke gutted it," Meg said with a wince, running a hand over the wooden top. "None of your old stuff is left…"

"I figured that might've happened; brought my own." She reached into her satchel, pulling out several quills, inkbottles, a stapler, a sheaf of fresh typewriter paper and a framed picture of Remus and Teddy. It was one of her favorites, taken in the kitchen of the new apartment. Remus was sitting in a chair with Teddy at his lap, helping the little boy wave to the camera. Teddy was chortling, his hair flushing bright turquoise and orange.

"Is that him?" Meg breathed, peering at the picture. "Oh, Tonks, he's _beautiful!"_

"Of course he is; he's mine," the auror replied with relish, and then, as a joke, "Oh, did you mean the baby?"

Meg giggled, but it was nervous; Tonks looked up and saw her taking a surreptitious glance around the office. When she looked back down, the other witch's face had fallen. "Sorry," she apologized softly. "I just…"

"It's okay," Tonks reassured her. "No point in causing a scene."

"Yeah," Meg agreed fervently. Then, lowering her voice even further, she asked, "Er- if it's not too personal a question, is he- I mean, your little boy…"

Tonks bit her lip, and then nodded. "He is," she murmured, but then smiled. "But we're taking it one month at a time. So far, Teddy's been doing okay."

"That's good to hear."

"Yeah… so!" She adopted the battle-ready expression she usually reserved for bringing in hardened criminals. "How bad is the damage?"

Meg winced. "Well… I can promise it won't be as bad as childbirth."

Tonks groaned. "That much?"

"You've been gone for a long time, Tonks. Even once we've got you caught up on paperwork, you'll have to get your spellmanship tested, redo your assessments-"

"Redo my assessments! I've been fighting in a bloody war, not sitting around doing needlepoint!"

"It's just protocol," Meg assured her. "I'm sure they won't make you run the course all over again."

"I wouldn't put it past Kingsley, or whoever he's put in for the head of the DMLE."

"Either way, the sooner you're through the paperwork, the sooner you can get back out in the field." Someone from across the office shouted her name, and the clerk turned. "In a minute, Dawlish!" Turning back, she whispered, "Bloody incompetent, that one."

Tonks snorted. "Some things never change. How is he still here, anyway? Shouldn't he be locked up in a nice cell somewhere?"

"Begged Kingsley to give him another chance," Meg muttered under her breath. "On hands and knees, I heard. Said he was just following orders."

"Kingsley bought it?"

"Of course not. That's why he's been downgraded to _my_ assistant." Meg smiled grimly. "More like my hassle, really, but the way Kingsley sees it is that he's more use to us by making him pay back his time then waiting out a stint in Azkaban, so he's technically working on parole."

"Madame Coburn!" Dawlish called again sullenly, and Meg sighed.

"Coming, Dawlish!" she snapped, and then nodded to the auror. "Tonks, I'll get the paperwork to you in a minute. Talk to you later, yeah?" Meg gave her a grin and then dashed off. Tonks waited patiently until a miniature avalanche of typewriter paper floated up to her desk. With a groan, she accepted her fate and set to work.

The first three hours until her lunch break were dreadfully slow, the next two after that equally tedious. Thankfully, the monotony was broken here and there by one fellow officer or another coming up to greet her, until she'd been reacquainted with almost the whole office. There were a few new faces, too; young trainees who'd fought as private citizens in the war and now were eager to devote themselves to helping bring those responsible to justice. Tonks hoped their resolve wouldn't fade after the initial glamor of the job wore off; auror work was more than firefights and chilling at the pub after a crazy night on the beat; half of the time, it was filling out forms in triplicate and combing over your reports so that Meg could give the Wizengamot a legally valid statement if the court subpoenaed. Paperwork was just a part of the job, and right now, she was devoted to slowly killing the white-stacked beast in front of her, inch by little inch.

It wasn't until around three that she finally allowed herself a reprieve, getting up and rolling her shoulders as she headed to the break room. Fetching her favorite pink mug from the cupboard, she poured herself a cup of black tea and grabbed a biscuit from the tin. As she did so, several other witches and wizards came in behind her, pouring their own cups and scarfing down biscuits.

"–And then the guy jumped _out the window,_ if you can believe it! Luckily he'd forgotten we were on the second floor; broke his bloody ankle, but we got him in."

"That's _amazing,"_ a feminine voice gushed, and Tonks wrinkled her nose. Paige Gladwyn was the department secretary, a pretty redhead whom Tonks was fairly certain had only taken the job in order to make passes at the male officers. The worst part was, Gladwyn wasn't a bimbo; Tonks could respect bimbos, in their own way, insofar as they were sweet, harmless creatures who didn't get in her way when she was working a case. But she could not respect Paige Gladwyn. The woman was a terrible gossip and somewhat malicious; Tonks had learned that lesson after trying to befriend her during Paige's first few months with the department. In return, she'd had one of her more embarrassing failures on a case sent down the office grapevine faster than she could say _silencio._

"Yeah, Haines; just incredible," Tonks said dryly, who had read the story in the previous morning's newspaper. "So tell me, just how high was the guy again?" She also had little respect for Will Haines, who actually _was_ an idiot and had the reputation of being a bit of a robe-chaser around the office.

Haines waggled his eyebrows. "Oh c'mon, Tonks, tell me you're not impressed."

"That's Officer Lupin to you, and no, I can't say I am," she drawled, "Considering he was off his tits on Baked Brew by the time you caught him. Probably thought you were a bloody mutant house-elf or something."

A few of the other officers burst out laughing; Haines and Gladwyn just glared at her. "Like you're one to talk!" Haines scoffed. "What kind of mum drugs her own child?"

"What're you on about, Haines?" said Tonks with a scowl.

"I was down Diagon Alley a few months ago. Saw you sitting with that werewolf, feeding your kid something _green._ That sure as shite wasn't baby formula."

The whole break room had gone dead silent. Tonks's brain had gone blank. This wasn't how she'd intended people to find out. Sure, she'd told Meg, but this…

"Oh. My. Godric," Paige said lowly. "The kid's one, too?"

"You got a problem with that, Gladwyn?" Tonks growled, setting down the teacup.

"Yeah, as a matter of fact I do! Why did you even _have_ it if you knew it was going to be a- a-"

"A what?" Tonks snapped. "A _werewolf?"_ Several of the others looked uncomfortable. "Well first off, my baby's got a name, and it's Teddy, thank you. And secondly, it's not like we _intended_ for him to catch the disease, heck, we didn't even think we could have kids! But my baby is the best surprise I ever got, so why don't you go shove your elitist bullshit where the sun don't shine, alright? I've got work to do."

She brushed past her back out into the bullpen, heading for her desk, when she heard Paige call out: "They've got potions to take care of that, you know!"

Nymphadora "Tonks" Lupin had always known herself to be the daughter of two houses: the easy-going line of Ted Tonks, a muggle-born wizard who laughed too loudly at the comics and believed firmly in Justice, Honor, and the Crown of Great Britain; and the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, calculating and impassioned and maybe just a little bit mad.

And, as easily as a muggle light-switch being thrown, Dora's inner _Tonks_ snapped off, and the _Black_ came out full-force.

Her wand was out before she even realized she'd turned around. The whole office had gone dead silent; if Dora could have seen herself, she would have known why. Gone were the bubbly pink locks, her hair having bled to a choppy, pitch-black bob, stark against her suddenly pale skin. Gone were the warm brown eyes, inheritance of her father, replaced with her mother's glittering onyx. For the first time in any of her fellow aurors' memories, good ol' Tonks looked like… well, she looked for all the world like the Mad Black. Like dear sweet aunty Bellatrix.

"Say that again," Tonks breathed, her wand twitching. "Go on. I dare you."

Paige bit her lip and didn't reply.

"That's what I thought." Her shining black eyes drilled into he secretary's, unblinking, burning with a cold fire. "Now you listen to me, Gladwyn," Tonks continued, voice dangerously soft. "My baby has just as much right to be here as your skinny little arse, and you will never- _ever-_ talk about him like that in my presence again. Do I make myself clear?" The woman gaped, and Tonks's eyes narrowed even further. _"Do I make myself clear?"_

Paige looked just about ready to nod, and then her eyes focused at something over Tonks's shoulder. Before the auror could turn, she heard a familiar voice say in a stunned gasp, "Merlin's beard. Tonks, is that you?"

She whirled around. Arthur Weasley was looking back at her in his mild-mannered version of shock, a badge emblazoned with the words, _"Department of Magical Law Enforcement"_ pinned to his robes.

* * *

Thursday morning was busy for Remus. Each of his seventeen students were in need of career advising, a matter in which McGonagall had insisted he was competent and Remus severely doubted his own abilities. Granted, he'd worked nearly every base-pay job on wizarding ground, and had held quite a few muggle positions besides, but his own career advisement meetings had been tricky at best and depressing at worst, despite Professor McGonagall's best efforts to the contrary. So, having enlisted the continued help of Hannah Abbot, who was more than happy to watch Teddy for a few extra hours, he opened up his schedule for counseling sessions.

Thankfully, most of his students were still set on the careers they'd chosen in their fifth years. Their, it seemed, hadn't changed much despite the turbulence of the previous year.

The first real surprise came with his first elder senior student, in the form of one Ginevra Weasley. She walked in two minutes early, promptly sat down, smoothed her skirt, and folded her hands on his office desk, looking him straight in the eyes.

Remus blinked. "Er– Hello, Ginevra."

"Hello, Professor. Are you well?"

"Oh, er, fine." He frowned. "Are _you_ well?"

"Quite. I'll be better once I've got this sorted."

"Beg your pardon?"

"You'll see what I mean." She nodded to the file on his desk which bore her name in McGonagall's fluid cursive. Intrigued, he opened the file and took a minute to read McGonagall's notes on the first. At the bottom of the form, where the career aspirations box lay, were the words, _Professional Quidditch Player._

"Ah," he said, somehow not surprised.

"For the Hollyhead Harpies," Ginny added, reading his mind. "They're my favorite team, you know."

"I didn't." He hesitated. "Er, Ginevra-"

"Oh, I know it's silly," she said dismissively. "That's what I've come to change. I'm a proper adult, now, and I should really find out what proper adult career I should do."

"Well, professional Quidditch _is_ a 'proper adult career,' so to speak– just highly selective," Remus said fairly. "Forgive me for asking, but are you any good?"

Ginny blinked. "Well, yes, I am. Very good, actually." She frowned. "Aren't you going to tell me to stop being ridiculous? To think seriously?"

"Well, I'm going to tell you to think seriously, but I don't think you're being silly. If you're good enough to be recruited and actually want to play, I think it'd be a waste of your talents not to try." When she still didn't reply, he added, "Ginny, I certainly don't think that Quidditch should be your _only_ career plan, but I don't think it's childish to want to do what you love."

"But I'm an adult now," she said uncertainly. "Silly dreams like- like professional Quidditch- I mean, they're for children."

Remus sighed. "You know, I sometimes think that the muggles might have something right that we don't. They come of age at eighteen and then most go to school for at least another two years, some as many as ten." He offered a wry smile. "I know how you feel, you know. I was your age when I went to war, too, just a kid myself. It makes you grow up very fast." He glanced to the ring on her finger and then back to her eyes. "But you're seventeen, Ginny; you're allowed to be a little childish at times."

Her shoulders relaxed with a breath neither realized she'd been holding. "Really?"

"Really," he said sincerely. "Now: bearing in mind that the Hollyhead Harpies are not out of the game quite yet: have you considered any options for a fallback if it _doesn't_ pay out?"

"Er- no, not really. I thought you might have some ideas."

He considered this for a moment. Ginny was bold and spoke her mind as a matter of principle, letting most criticism roll right off her back. She was generally well-liked, polite until things turned ugly, and had an penchant for objective opinion. She knew an awful lot about Quidditch and valued a fair game. And the one thing that Professor Lupin knew about her that very few people did, was that Ginevra Weasely had a natural talent with the written word. Having been her teacher for a year, he knew that she had a talent for writing articulate and concise reports, getting her point across without resorting to the more legalistic verbosity of Hermione Granger. What she stumbled through and around in her words grew smooth and clear the moment she put her pen to paper; beneath the blustering Weasley temperament, he knew, was a young lady with passions and opinions which she could quite eloquently explain when she had the time to construct them concretely.

All of this coalesced into a perfect picture, and Remus wondered why no one had ever seen it before. "Ginny," he inquired, "have you ever considered journalism?"

* * *

"So. Arthur says you got in a tiff with Paige Gladwyn."

"That's right."

"And you threatened her?"

"Well, not in so many words, but I think she got the point."

Kingsley let out a long-suffering sigh and folded his hands on the desk as if in prayer for patience. Tonks raised an eyebrow as if daring him to object. "Tonks. Do you know why I'm meeting with you instead of your Head of Department?"

"Because Arthur's scared of me now?"

The minister gave her a look. _"No."_ He stood and turned to the bookshelf behind him, pulling out a thick folder filled with papers. "It is because, Tonks, if Gladwyn decides to run to the Prophet, we are going to be in some very hot water."

Tonks frowned. "Okay, so I intimidated her a little. That was wrong, I get it. But what's this hot water you're on about?"

Kingsley turned and set the folder down on his desk. Instead of answering, he said, "You realize I'm going to have to suspend you for the rest of the week, don't you?"

"Kingsley, I just got back–!"

"–And you should be grateful for it, because you're going to need the time with the amount of paperwork you'll be getting," he concluded.

She blinked. "Begging your pardon?"

He pushed the folder across the desk to her. Bemused, Tonks opened it and read the first line.

She looked up, not even realizing as her hair faded to white. "No _way."_

"You see why your little incident with the secretary might be rather more serious than you thought."

But she was gaping at him now, hardly even listening. "You want to make _me_ chief superintendent?"

Kingsley smiled slightly and inclined his head.

"But- but- Kingsley, I can't!" Her hair was turning bright orange with fear. "Kingsley, I'm twenty-seven! I wear my hair ridiculous colors! I still keep my wand in my back pocket!"

"None of which would inhibit you from being an _excellent_ head of office. But," he added, "you're going to have to apologize to Gladwyn."

Tonks grimaced. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, you do." Kingsley frowned. "Tonks, what exactly got into you? You haven't lost your temper like that since–"

"Since Bellatrix. I know." Her hair morphed to black again, much to Kingsley's surprise.

"Tonks?" he questioned. "Is there something Arthur or I should know about?"

She hesitated, and then said darkly, "Let's just say that Paige Gladwyn and Bellatrix Lestrange are alike in more ways than you'd think. Namely, how they think kids like Teddy should be 'taken care of.'"

Kingsley's face went stony at that. "I see," he said curtly, and Tonks realized that she had his sympathy. "Well, you're still on suspension, and you still have to apologize _for the threat,"_ he added, before Tonks could interrupt, "but I'll have Arthur talk to Gladwyn."

"You think he'll be able to handle her?"

"He's fathered seven children, Tonks; he'll take care of it. And if he doesn't," Kingsley vowed, "I will."

"Thank you, Kingsley," Tonks said sincerely, with more gravity to her voice than she usually employed. "Although I suppose once I'm sworn in I'll be able to set her straight myself."

"So you'll take the job, then?" the minister said with a smile.

Tonks returned it. "It would be my honor."

The younger auror left that meeting in much better spirits than she could have anticipated walking in. Arthur was waiting outside for her. "He wasn't too harsh on you, was he?" the Weasley patriarch inquired worriedly. "You won't be thrown off the force?"

"Merlin, no. I'm your new chief superintendent, Arthur!"

"Are you really? That's wonderful! I'm sure you'll do just beautifully, Tonks."

"Thanks. Although," she added, wrinkling her nose, "I've got to apologize to Gladwyn. Oh, and I've been suspended for the rest of the week."

"Oh, dear," he said with a frown. "And you've only been here a few hours."

"Eh, I think it's more a chance to let me get through the rest of the paperwork. Besides, I'm not going to complain about getting Saturday off."

* * *

The rest of the other younger seventh-years' sessions had run fairly smoothly, and Remus was beginning to wonder whether he'd see any of the older students, before he checked his schedule. The last slot had been filled very late the evening before, so late he hadn't had time to read it over, and so was mildly surprised when he saw the name _Seamus Finnegan_ scrawled hastily on the bottom.

Not thirty seconds after having read this, the door to his office opened, revealing the very same. The young Irishman was looking particularly uncertain as he walked in, an unusual expression for someone usually so cheerful and self-assured. "Seamus," said Remus pleasantly, nodding to the chair opposite the desk. "Please, take a seat."

"Er- right," he said nervously, setting his schoolbag aside and sitting down. "Thanks."

"Now let me see, I've got your file right here…" He rifled through the papers, frowning with interest. "So you want to become an auror, is that right? Well, my wife's bound to be happy about that; she keeps saying they need new blood in the Corps-"

"Actually, sir," Seamus broke in uncomfortably, "I'm more here to tell you that I'm not sure how much you can help me. And I'm sorry to disappoint your wife, but I don't want to join the Corps anymore."

"Oh?" said Lupin, raising his eyebrows. "Why not?"

Seamus shook his head. "At the time I thought, well, if Harry's right after all, then it looks like we'll be going to war any day now, and– well, I wanted to fight, you know. Only now I've done me fighting, so…"

"I understand. Did you have anything particular in mind?"

Much to his surprise, Seamus blushed. "I, er… I've had an idea, sir, but- well, I'm sure you'll think it's bunk, anyhow-"

"I highly doubt that," Lupin said kindly. "Go on."

Seamus bit his lip. "Well, ah… there's this school, sir. A real fine school, in Ireland, one of the best in Northern Europe for…" He took a deep breath. "Well, for wizards looking to go into the clergy."

Lupin's eyes widened. "The clergy?"

"I know," Seamus groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I know, it's mental, me whole family thinks I'm daft. They keep going on about me _potential,_ and I s'pose they're right, I mean, I've a bloody Order of Merlin now, I could get a job anywhere I liked, but–"

"Seamus, you needn't justify yourself to me," Remus reassured him. "What made you think about becoming a cleric?"

The young Irishman looked up hesitantly. "…I don't mention it to the others," he said awkwardly, "But I've special permission to go down to the village with Sister Pomfrey on Sundays. Only last year…" His expression grew dark. "Last year, the Carrows wouldn't let me leave. Pomfrey used to sneak me in Holy Communion, but… I knew it was only a matter of time. Fr. McMurray, he was hiding muggleborns, you see. When they found him out… they killed him."

"I'm so sorry," said Lupin quietly. "I didn't know him well, but he was a good man."

"After the battle, I kept walking in between the bodies. Thinking how it was a shame, no one here to give them their Last Rites. Oh, I knew most of them weren't Catholic, but…" He shrugged his shoulders sadly. "I sent a patronus to me confessor back home in Ireland, and he came up. But I kept thinking, if I'd just been a few years older, if I'd been here, if I'd known what was going to happen…"

"It wasn't your fault."

"I know. But it was still a right pity. And I realized I knew what I wanted to do, what I _had_ to do. Professor, I don't ever want anyone to die like that again, not if I can help it."

His expression was so fierce that Lupin couldn't help but admire his dedication. "I can't say I quite understand," he replied honestly. "I'm a Presbyterian myself, but… I don't think there's any shame in doing what you believe is right, if this is really what you want to do."

"It is," Seamus said stoutly. "I'll do whatever it takes."

"Then it would be my honor to write you a letter of recommendation. And for what it's worth," he added, "I think you'll make a grand cleric."

And the smile that beamed from Seamus's face gave him hope that maybe he wouldn't be half-bad a career counselor, after all.

* * *

It was nearing six in the evening when at last Dora bit back her pride enough to go apologize to Paige. The secretary was sitting at her desk typing up forms with perfectly manicured fingernails that clicked on the typewriter keys in the most annoying way, or at least Tonks thought so. "Er- Gladwyn," she said reluctantly, and the secretary glanced up, raising an eyebrow.

"Tonks," she replied warily.

"I just- er- want to apologize. For losing my temper, I mean." She bit back the words, _even though you deserved it,_ and continued, "That was highly unprofessional and it won't happen again."

Paige offered a very fake smile. "I'm sure."

"Great. Er- well, I'm off, then; got to get home. See you Saturday." She turned for the door.

"Oh, Tonks?" She glanced back. "I didn't _mean_ to offend, you know," Paige said, voice dripping with false sincerity. "I really just wanted to offer any help I could. There's a little apothecary down Knockturn Alley that's said to be very good for, well, _that_ sort of thing. Just if you ever have any future needs."

Tonks stared. She could feel her hair going beetroot red– with anger, with unwarranted embarrassment– but couldn't manage to speak. Paige just smiled that false smile. "Well. Have a goodnight, Tonks."

Her throat was tight. Her hands were shaking. Tonks had a temper, all right, but she kept it cool enough most of the time not to do anything rash. In one bound, Paige had pushed her far past her breaking point, even past the point of screaming and throwing a few good hexes. Tonks was now at that infamous point reached by any woman who was frustrated and angry and hurt all at once, and no matter how hard she tried she couldn't fight the tears pricking at her eyes. So in one abrupt motion she turned and stalked out of the office without a word.

The false windows in the office shattered to reveal cold earth as the door slammed behind her.

* * *

"Aaand we're done, Teddy! How about that!" Remus grinned down at his son, who was lying on his stomach on a throw rug at the base of his father's desk, mouthing his cloth rattle with carefree enjoyment. "Papa finished marking _all_ his papers!"

Teddy looked up at him and cooed.

"Yes, yes, I'm very accomplished." He reached down and scooped Teddy into his arms, tickling his belly; the boy gigled, his hair turning turquoise. "I've got an idea. Let's go start dinner for your mama, hm? The healer says you can try rice now; would you like that? Hardy, manly food, so you can grow up smart and strong like your papa."

Teddy cooed, and his hair faded to a mousy brown; his eyes flashed gold. Remus felt his heart swell with pride and affection, so strong it brought tears to his eyes; his son was trying to look like him. "Yes, just like your papa," he laughed tapping the baby's nose as he walked out of the and up the staircase at the end of the corridor. "You're going to be quite a handful someday, when you figure out how useful that little talent is."

They left the staircase and walked together down through the long hallways, father and son, as Remus told the child stories he'd heard from Dora of all the mischief she'd caused with her gift. "-And that, you see, is how she managed to get out of her potions final. Isn't that just terrible?" The boy _ahhed_ and grabbed at his nose, causing his father to smile and grimace at the same time. "None of that, now! I know I'm a handsome devil, but that nose is _mine,_ thank you very much!"

"Well, I guess he just wants to be like his dad," a voice said, and Remus looked up to see a smiling Harry Potter in front of him at the edge of the stairwell.

"Harry! Did you need anything?"

"Oh- er- I know you were doing counseling interviews today, but I suppose you're through with them now?" he asked, and Remus thought he detected a strangely hopeful hint in his voice.

"Oh, er, yes– since this morning, actually."

"Bugger. Well, I'll just have to try later, then." He suddenly realized what he'd said and went red, eyes wide behind his glasses as he glanced to Teddy. "Oh, er, sorry. Not in front of the kid, right?"

"Corrupting my child; shame on you, Potter," Remus drawled, and then stopped short at the look of surprise the teenager gave him. "I'm sorry, Harry," he apologized, embarrassed at getting so easily caught up in the past. "Sometimes you really are a lot like your father. That was exactly the sort of thing James would have done."

Harry's eyes softened. "You really do miss them, don't you, Professor?"

"Every day of my life," Remus replied honestly. "They were as good as family to me." Both student and teacher looked over as Teddy pawed at his father's face with an expression of concern, his hair turning blue.

"He can tell when you're upset," Harry noted with surprise.

"Oh, yes. He's a very intelligent baby." Remus shifted his grip, as the baby was growing rather heavy, and then said brusquely, "Just pop in sometime tomorrow or Saturday, and we'll get your application all sorted out. The sooner I can get the forms in, the better it is for–" he broke off suddenly. "Oh, dear!"

"What?"

"The forms- I left them in the office!" He looked back to Teddy and made a quick decision. "Harry, are you doing anything important at the moment?"

"Er- not particularly-"

"Could you by chance hold Teddy for ten minutes? Only he's a bit heavy to be going up and down stairs with; I can't imagine how Dora did it for nine months!"

"Ah, how can I turn down my godson?" Harry accepted the baby with a grin.

"Thank you so very much. Be up in a mo'."

Remus dashed down the stairs and across what seemed like half the castle to his office, gathering up all his papers and briefcase. As he hurried back, he saw the teenager coming down the hall, distinctly Teddy-free. "What did you do with my son?" he asked, a bit more frantically than he meant to.

"Tonks has him; she came up just a few minutes ago. She looked in a bit of a state, Professor; you should go talk to her."

"Did she? Which way did she go?"

"Up to your apartment, I think."

Remus thanked him and hurried off again, feet pounding the stone. Dread twisted his stomach; something had happened at work, he just knew it. When he reached the apartment, the door was slightly ajar, and the air felt colder than it ought to have. Pausing to catch his breath, he pushed it open.

What he found within was not at all what he'd been expecting. The first thing he noticed was that the room was entirely dark, without a single candle lit, illuminated only by the red light of the sunset that was streaming through the windows. Or, rather, where the windows ought to have been; the glass seemed to have fractured as if blasted by a soundwave, littering the hardwood floor and catching the scarlet light on their sharp edges. The curtains billowed inside, buffeted by the wind– _so that was the cause of the draft–_ and, most eerily, he could hear not a sound.

A great fear seized Remus's heart. He stepped forward warily; a crackling sound drew his attention, and he glanced down to find crystal shards of glass under his shoes. "Dora?" he called uncertainly. No voice answered; he set down his briefcase and stepped inside, glass breaking underfoot. "Dora, are you alright?"

"I'm here, Remus," a dull, throaty voice called from the couch. He hurried over to find his wife curled up cross-legged on the couch, shorter than her natural height and her hair cropped short and dark turquoise. Her eyes were red and puffy, fixed on the quiet Teddy in her arms. The infant seemed to realize the seriousness of the situation and pawed gently at his mother's cheek, not making a sound.

"Sorry 'bout the windows," Tonks mumbled, not looking at her husband. "I'll fix them later."

"Never mind that; Dora, what happened?" he breathed, sitting down beside her.

She sniffled and shrugged. Remus sighed and pulled the pair into a hug; with that, his wife broke down into tears again.

"I hate them, Remus!" she wept. "I hate them so much!"

"Hate who, love?"

She let out a choked sob and let out something that sounded like a garbled mixture of syllables and sounds. Remus patted her back and murmured nonsense comforts. When at last the woman had gotten ahold of herself, she drew back, still holding Teddy in her arms, whom she looked at with both heartbreak and adoration.

"…He had to know," she murmured at last, drawing away. "I had to make sure he knows, Remus. That there's someone who loves him, who will always love him, no matter what…"

He suddenly realized where this was going, and a wave of guilt and raw anger washed over him. "What happened, Dora?" he asked again, this time more firmly.

She sighed and stood, balancing the baby on her hip as she walked away, back to him. "I got suspended for the rest of the week. For losing my temper with Paige Gladwyn."

 _"What?_ Dora, that's not like you–"

"The bitch deserved it," Tonks growled, turning around. "She said that I should have- should have made sure Teddy was _taken care of._ Even volunteered to give me the address for one of those horrible apothecaries in case of any _future needs."_

Remus went cold; it was like a shaft of ice had just been struck through his heart. "I-I'm sure she didn't mean it maliciously," he stammered. "She probably thought- believed it would be kinder-"

"No, that was _exactly_ how she meant it," the witch spat. "She wasn't thinking about 'mercy' or any of that, Remus, she meant that he didn't _belong_ here. She talked about him like he wasn't even a _person,_ just a bloody _waste of space."_

An awful guilt was clutching at his stomach, tightening until Remus thought he would be sick. He should have known this would happen. He knew how society saw him, how tortured he had felt at the thought of fathering a child with the same condition. Unbidden, every backhanded, sneering comment he'd ever heard about _his kind_ and procreating _– "Thank Merlin they can't breed;" "Bloody beasts should be fixed, just in case;"–_ rose in vile succession to his mind. Did he have any right, really, to risk bringing another innocent life into this world, a life marked with prejudice and pain?

Tonks was still going, ranting even as she came back to the couch. "I wanted to slap her, to tell her that she's the fool, that my baby is perfect… but then I realized, Teddy's not perfect. He's sick." She stopped here, tears filling her eyes as she looked down at her son. "He's sick," she repeated thickly, "and for the rest of his life people are going to be looking down on him, thinking he doesn't have a right to be here because he doesn't fit their idea of perfection." She stroked Teddy's hair with gentle fingertips, the baby still red-eyed but no longer crying. "So you see, I _had_ to make him understand, how much I love him," Tonks whispered. "He had to _know."_

Remus was unable to answer, so he nodded his head. His wife sighed and sat down beside him, still holding the child in her arms and looking at him as if she would never look away. For a long time, the three of them just sat there, the two adults watching the baby, the baby squirming and grabbing and trying imitate their faces. Eventually Tonks cheered slightly and began to change her hair color, smiling slightly when the boy copied her. "…That's my smart boy," she murmured. "You're so clever, just like your daddy."

"…Dora…" Remus said at last, hesitantly, "Do you think that maybe– I mean, is it possible that… that this coworker of yours had a point?"

Dora looked up sharply. _"What?"_

"Not- in what she said about- that is-"

"You think I shouldn't have had Teddy?" she demanded, leaping to her feet.

"No!" he promised, standing to match her. "No, of course I don't! But- Dora, I love our son, you know I do! And I would never, ever even _think_ about asking you to- to do what that woman told you. But now… Dora, do I have any right to be with you again, when it might bring another life of suffering into this world?"

"A life doesn't stop being worthwhile just because it includes pain!"

"But suffering like this-"

"-Is difficult. I _know,_ Remus. But that doesn't make his life any less important, any less worthy to be lived, than that of anyone else!"

"There's a difference between letting someone live and causing life to happen!" he exclaimed, and her heart twisted at the way he said _"let,"_ as if he still subconsciously considered his very existence a favor and not a right. "With Teddy, it was a mistake-"

"Are you calling our son a _mistake?!"_

"No! Never! But we had no idea, _no idea_ that he was even a possibility! And now we do. Dora, we're _responsible_ now! And I can't…" He pinched the bridge of his nose, grimacing as if he were close to tears.

Tonks sighed, felt her own fire die. "Oh, Remus…" She reached up and took his hands into hers, saw the wetness around his hazel eyes.

"Dora, I love you more than anything," he whispered hoarsely. "And I want to love you… the way a husband is supposed to love his wife. But I… I don't know if I can afford to take that chance again. To run the risk of some innocent child having to suffer because of my negligence, my selfishness. Don't you see that?"

She stood silent, uncertain what to say. Remus couldn't meet her eyes, and neither knew how to break the sudden and insurmountable wall of silence that had erupted between them. For what seemed like an eternity, the only sound they could hear was the wind through the broken windows, the clicking of the clock in their bedroom, and Teddy's occasional faint, worried coos.

And this last sound was at last Dora's saving grace.

"Remus, look at our son," she said finally, and the man before her at last managed to raise his eyes, glancing to the precious child in her arms. "He's beautiful, isn't he? And I'm sure that if you were to ask him a few years from now if he's happy to be alive- Remus, I am _sure_ he would answer yes!"

"But you _can't_ be sure, Dora," he moaned. "You can't! I… I know there were times in my life when I wouldn't have answered yes… times where I thought I'd have been better off never having been born…"

"But what about now?" she pressed. "Aren't you happy now?"

"Of course I am, but that's not the point! I was fortunate; Teddy might not be, his future siblings might not be, all because of what I've done, what I _am…"_

Dora didn't waste time with words. Before Remus knew exactly what she was doing, she was kissing him full on the mouth. After a few seconds, she pulled away, leaving him to stand there in a daze.

"Remus John Lupin, I want you to hear me loud and clear," Nymphadora said forcefully. "I love you with everything I have in me, every iota of my being. You are not _expendable._ You are not _less worthy_ to be alive than anyone else. You are _important,_ you are _good,_ you are a _wonderful_ husband and father, and if I lost you, I don't know what I would do with myself!" She gripped his arm fiercely. "Your disease does not change your value, and it would not, would _never_ , change the value of the lives of our children. You mean the world to me, Remus– and if something so precious and incredible as a child should come out of the love I have for you, then I would be overjoyed to think that I had helped create a person who will one day be as special to someone as you are to Teddy and me. And even if that never happens for him," she added sternly, "he will have parents who _love_ and _care_ about him. Remus, his life is going to be _worthwhile."_

A certain peace had come over his features with her words; although there still seemed to be doubt in his eyes, he didn't look so fretful. She cupped his cheek with her hand gently and added, "Remus, if you're really this frightened, then we'll only be together when there's the least chance of me getting pregnant again. But _if_ it does happen, we will love that baby with all our hearts, won't we?"

"Of course!" he vowed. "Of course I would, Dora, don't ever doubt that."

"Then let's _not_ be scared of this. Kids are a _good thing,_ remember?" She grinned, tweaked his cheek. "Even the ones who become adorable little fur-balls once a month. So stop talking like a pureblood supremacist, would you?"

He blinked at that, a little startled, and then realized he was right. "Of course. I'm being ridiculous…"

"Yes, you are. And trying to be noble. Funny how those things go together with you." She looked down to the child in her arms, whose hair had gone turquoise with contentment at seeing his parents no longer upset. "Our boy is a beautiful, wonderful gift," she said seriously, looking back up. "Whether he's 'perfect' or not. And he's got a wonderful father to show him that, every single day."

At last, Remus smiled– a genuine, grateful smile. "And a wonderful mother to tell him how beautiful he is, each and every day," he agreed, and pecked her on the lips. Dora smiled and kissed him back.

"So. Dinner," Remus said cheerfully, drawing back. "We have options. We can either pop down to the staff table and eat there, or I can make chicken dumplings with rice. Your decision."

"Let's eat up here," she suggested, shifting Tedy to her other hip. "I love your chicken dumplings."

"I knew you couldn't resist."

"Mm. Maybe it's just because the man who makes them is so _delicious,"_ she teased, just to see him blush.

"Well, I'm flattered you think so." He suddenly realized he was rather cold, and said, "Er, Dora?"

"Yeah?" He nodded to the broken windows, and now it was her turn to blush. "Oh, right. _Reparo!"_

The shards of glass jumped back together and sealed with a pretty tinkling. "So, other than bigoted secretaries, how was your first day back at work?"

"Hm? Oh!" She placed Teddy in the baby chair next to the table and said proudly, "I was so upset I almost forgot to tell you. Three guesses on who's the new chief superintendent."

"Oh? Who?" he called over his shoulder, lighting the stove and reaching for a boiling pot in the cupboard.

She didn't answer, merely grinned at his back and waited.

Two seconds later, Remus dropped the pot, turning around. "No!" he said, voice hushed. She nodded gleefully. "Oh, Dora, that's wonderful!" She laughed and took a mock bow. "This calls for celebration– we haven't any champagne, but I know we've got a bottle of white wine around her somewhere..."

"Teddy's not quite of age, Remus," Tonks teased. As if to back her up, the baby cooed cheerfully. "And it'll go bad once we open it; we'll have to finish the whole thing ourselves."

"Oh, love, I think we can manage that!" He let out a noise of triumph as he pulled a bottle of white wine from the cupboard. "A toast, shall we?"

"What, right now? We haven't even started dinner."

"Just a small glass, Tonks."

She hesitated, and then conceded. "Alright, a small glass."

He poured them each a small amount, and then raised the glass to her. "A toast," he said quietly, "To my beautiful wife, who today proved that she is not only an accomplished auror, but also a wonderful mother."

Tonks giggled and raised her glass. "And to my handsome husband, who teaches me something new every day. And," she added, "to our son."

Remus nodded. "To our son."

They clinked their glasses together.

* * *

 **A/N: Long chapter in repayment of a long wait. (Sorry! Sorry!)**

 **So as you might have guessed, this chapter was written (belatedly) in honor of the pro-life movement's** _ **Save the Humans Week,**_ **which ended on Sunday. I wanted to address the difficult issue of having children when there are the concerns of such devastating genetic conditions at stake. I thought this definitely played an implicit role in the 7** **th** **book where Remus is panicking about Teddy inheriting his condition; clearly he loves his son and his wife, but he doesn't know what to do if he's brought an innocent life into the world in a state where terrible pain is inevitable.**

 **I actually think that it's one of the failings of a lot of really good fiction, that almost every time, the child turns out to be just fine. Teddy is not a werewolf, Michael Vincent is not blind, you get the idea. But in real life, sometimes those concerns have real consequences. I wanted to address those consequences and provide an answer that affirms universal human dignity.**

 **Again, _IF YOU DIDN'T READ IT BEFORE:_ the chapter is not **_**at all**_ **meant to be a condemnation of anyone who has had or has encouraged someone else to have an abortion. I know that more often than not it is a decision made out of fear, embarrassment and, as regards this particular issue, oftentimes a real desire to spare the child itself any suffering in later life. Paige is** _ **not**_ **meant to represent those people in the slightest; rather, she is a symbol of the mentality which doesn't consider children with certain genetic disorders to be worthwhile human beings. This is an** _ **apologia**_ **both against that mentality and the mentality that a life which contains great suffering is not a life worth lived.**

 **As a very last and totally unrelated note, no, Seamus's vocation is not just my little inner Catholic fangirl popping up; this actually has a point, as you'll see in the next chapter. Ta ta for now! Pax et bonum!**


	10. Chapter 10: Careers Counseling

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here.

 **A/N: Long chapter for a long wait!**

 **Warnings: PTSD references, cursing, Greyback being Greyback.**

* * *

 _"Harry, what in Merlin's name is going on?!"_

 _"Ron, I told you, I'll meet you back at base."_

 _"S-sir, please, don't let him, sir, I'll go quietly, please-!"_

 _"Oh, Merlin– Harry, don't do this!"_

 _"NO, RON! THEY DESERVE IT! FOR WHAT THEY DID, THEY DESERVE IT!"_

 _"Harry, don't-!"_

 _"AVADA KEDAVRA!"_

He jerked awake violently, and his eyes snapped open, lungs gasping for air. After a few terrifying, disorienting seconds, Harry realized he was in bed. As he stared up at the canopy of his four-poster, his mouth began to shake, eyes burning viciously. He wiped at them with a trembling hand and sat up, forcing himself to breathe deep, shuddering breaths, despite the tightness in his throat.

There was no possibility of going back to sleep now; the pleading screams of the nightmare still rang fresh in his ears, and he couldn't stand to be alone with them. He pushed back the covers and swept aside the curtains; there was a slight _pop_ as the _mufflatio_ charms broke. He swung his legs out over the edge, shivering slightly as his feet hit the cold stone floor.

Outside the window, the waning gibbous moon beamed silver into the dorm. He glanced over to the other beds; Dean, Seamus and Neville were all fast asleep. Ron was turned away from him, leaving only his mop of red curls visible, but his breathing was even and slow. Harry watched him for a second and felt the sick feeling in his stomach intensify.

He turned abruptly and headed down the stairs into the common room, not bothering to put on his glasses. The fire was burnt down to coals, barely giving enough light to illuminate the figure sitting, quiet and still, on the sofa before it, red hair flashing ruby and gold in the glow.

Ginny didn't move, but her eyes flicked over as Harry sat down beside her, and she let out a low sigh through her nose. For a while they sat together, unspeaking. At last, she shifted and turned to look at him. "The dream again?" she said softly.

He nodded, swallowed.

"Tell me what it is," she pleaded. "It could help you."

"Ginny, please…"

"If not me, then Ron or Hermione. _Someone,_ Harry."

"Ginny, I don't want to argue about this right now, alright?"

She bit her lip, and then nodded, leaning back against the couch cushions. The man beside her wore a face so tired and drawn she had trouble believing that he was only eighteen.

"You too, then?" Harry said with a sigh, glancing to her.

"Yeah." She hesitated, and then said, "But it wasn't the Carrows this time. It was the old one."

"The diary."

She nodded, and he looked away. After a long silence, he said quietly, "Do you ever get scared, Ginny? I mean, he was inside us, inside our heads…"

He swallowed, and she saw that his hands were shaking. She took the nearest one into her own, and he let out a shuddering breath. "I just– I know he's dead, I know he's… but he was _in our minds,_ Ginny, and I'm scared, I'm scared that he broke something while he was there, something I can't fix…"

"Shh," she murmured, and pulled him close to her. He buried her face in the crook of his neck, and she could feel hot tears on her shoulder. "You're not bad, Harry," she whispered, rubbing her thumb on the nape of his neck, the edges of his dark hair. "You're not."

"I just want to be over," he hissed, teeth gritted tight, _"Gin, why isn't it over?"_

"It's over. You got him, Harry, it's all over now…"

He nodded against her shoulder, and they stayed there together for a long while. Eventually, he pulled away, rubbing at his eyes with the palm of his hand. "Sorry," he muttered. "It's been hard on everyone, I know, especially you lot…"

"Don't," she said firmly. "Don't apologize for being upset; Fred wouldn't have minded at all."

He nodded and glanced to the stairs. "I don't want to go up," he said honestly. "I don't want to fall asleep if…"

"We can stay down here. Just talk, or watch the fire."

And that was what they did. For a while they talked, about every light and easy thing they could imagine– from upcoming Quidditch tryouts to Professor Kemp's transfiguration homework to Ron and Hermione's unfailing awkwardness. When the words ran dry, they added another log to the fire and simply sat there, comfortable in each other's company.

After an indeterminable length of time, Harry realized Ginny had fallen asleep; proper gentleman that he was, he found her a pillow and coaxed her awake enough to let her lie down, and then retreated to an armchair and watched the fire burn. Eventually the flames faded to a faded wash of gold, and he drifted off into that half-conscious daze where nightmares dare not venture, lulled to comfort by the warm crackling of burning pine and the soft darkness of the night.

* * *

It was a bright, fair day in the Scottish highlands, and Professor Minerva McGonagall, newly-instituted Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was in half a mind to take her work down by the lake and finish in the sunshine. The mere thought of seeing the first-years gaping in what they probably thought was an inconspicuous manner to see the strict professor leaning against a tree with a typewriter in her lap was enough to make her smirk and send a wistful glance out the window, to where happy children were shrieking and playing on the lawn below. Unfortunately, she was drafting a rather important grant application at the moment, and reasoned it would probably be inappropriate to risk covering it in dirt, grass stains, and whatever may come leaping out of the Black Lake. _Now the budget ledgers, on the other hand…_

 _"Madame McGonagall."_

The headmistress started and glanced up at the musical voice; the golden griffin knocker on the inside of her door had opened its engraved eyes. _"There's a Mr. Horace Slughorn to see you, Madame."_

"Oh? Show him in, please."

The knocker closed its eyes, and there was the distinct grating sound of stone on stone as several floors below, its larger counterpart turned to allow the visitor inside. Minerva returned to eyeing teacher's agendas and financial reports; precisely thirty-seven seconds later, the door opened to reveal a puffing Professor Slughorn.

"Horace," she said, straightening the typed papers with a smart rap on the desk. "May I help you?"

"Oh, I daresay not; it's rather I who can help you," the potions instructor said cheerfully, though he looked a bit pale.

"Don't you have a class at the moment?"

"Oh, I did, up until about half an hour ago. The long and short of it was that we found a pair of boggarts in the ingredient cupboards in Dungeon Four. I thought you might give them to Lupin for his third-year classes?"

"Yes, he does like to start with boggarts early," she recalled. "Thank you, Horace; that'll be most helpful."

"Do tell him to mind the second one," the professor warned. "It was quite strong; I think it must have spawned halfway through the events of last year, by the size of it. Took half my class just to get it back in the cupboard."

"You couldn't handle it yourself?"

He turned a bit red and ducked his head in embarrassment. "To tell you the truth, Headmistress, I was a bit in shock. You see, I was the one who _found_ the second boggart."

Her expression softened. "Anyone could've been caught off-guard," she offered generously. "Thank you for telling me, Horace; I'll make sure to let Remus know."

"Naturally, naturally. Have a good day."

"You as well, Horace."

The potions master headed for the door; at the last second, he turned back. "Oh, I nearly forgot: I found this memo hovering outside your door; goodness knows how long it's been there. I haven't read it." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded airplane-shaped purple memo, embossed with gold print. "It's from the Ministry," he added.

"Yes, I can see that. Thank you, Horace."

He bobbed his head and left, shutting the door behind him. Baffled, Minerva opened the memo, and promptly groaned. It couldn't be; she was sure she'd set the appointment at least a week later…

Unwilling to believe her poor luck, she glanced down to the purple leaflet again and grimaced.

 **To: Professor Minerva McGonagall,**

 **We would like to cordially remind you**

 **of your impending interview with:**

 ** _MS. RITA SKEETER_**

 **regarding:**

 ** _NEW HOGWARTS SCHOOL SECURITY_**

 **at:**

 ** _6:00 PM, 11 SEPTEMBER, 1998._**

 **Best regards,**

 ** _The Daily Prophet_**

Minerva sighed. The Board of Governors had practically insisted that she hold a personal interview with the _Prophet_ to assuage prospective parents about the safety of the school after the Battle last May. Clearly, someone at the newspaper still held an intense dislike for Albus Dumbledore and the school's anti-supremacy policy; otherwise they wouldn't have dared to send the one journalist whom Minerva personally could not stand. She had taught Skeeter herself, some thirty-odd years ago, and never a nosier girl had she met in her life, always trying to find out the personal secrets of everyone else. Minerva still suspected that Skeeter had at one point stolen a folder of her upper-level class notes, though for what purposes she didn't like to imagine.

Well, there was nothing for it, now; by Monday morning a suitably scandalous article would be splashed across the Prophet's front page; hopefully, Rita would focus her criticisms on Minerva's "suspiciously" short marriage or "near-nationalistic" Scottish pride, rather than indicting the school itself. With a long-suffering sigh, the headmistress stood and went for her liquor cabinet, intent on pouring herself a courage-bolstering dram. Then, she paused, a wry smirk crossing her face.

With a flick of her wand, her emerald robes striped themselves in red-and-green tartan.

* * *

Remus charmed the chalkboard clean with a wave of his wand and gingerly touched his hair, which was a shocking shade of fire-engine red. The first-years had been working on sparkler-charms and one of them had accidentally bungled the Latin. He was just about to set it right when the door opened.

"Ah, Ronald! Come in, come in; I wasn't expecting you quite so early."

"Sorry, Sir. Wanted to get this over with." The youngest Weasley boy walked in and followed the professor up the stairs to his office, setting his book bag down at the foot of the chair while Remus rummaged through the stack of files on his desk. "Nice hair," he said with a grin.

Lupin chuckled. "Yes, I imagine I'd fit right in at the Burrow." Ron laughed. "Weasley, Weasley… that's Ginny's, let's see, here we are!" He removed the file from the stack and opened it. "I see you told Professor McGonagall you were interested in auror work?"

"Er, yeah…"

"Well, I'm sure Dora will be more than willing to accept you– oh, but you'll need top marks, you know. Your charms work as of late seems more than adequate, but I'd suggest putting a little more work into Potions and Transfiguration."

"Right," Ron said nervously.

"It's a bit too late to take up runes, but if you want to add in Care of Magical Creatures it could be very helpful; then again, a tight focus on your core subjects wouldn't be amiss, the choice is really up to you. Either way, if you can get through the internship you're shoe-in. Now let me just get the form–"

"Sir," Ron burst out, startling the professor. When he bit his lip and didn't continue, Remus frowned.

"Ron? Something you wanted to discuss?"

"I…" He hesitated, and then, inexplicably, his eyes dropped. Anyone else would have missed the way his hand tightened, the resolute set to his jaw, but Remus had seen that look before: the day James Potter had passed up his own acceptance into the auror corps to fight with the Order. "Sir, I need to change my careers goal."

 _Need to._ There was something off in his phrasing; Remus frowned but instead said lightly, "Oh? Professor McGonagall's notes say you seemed quite keen on the idea, although of course things can change in the span of a few years." When Ron didn't reply, he added idly, "It's a shame, really; McGonagall noted she would personally write you a recommendation letter herself."

"She did?" Ron demanded, looking up, and his face betrayed everything.

Remus smiled knowingly. "Yes. She seemed to think that with a little hard work, you could make an excellent auror." Ron's hands twitched, and Remus leaned forward, "Ronald. Why are you giving this up?"

The redhead gaped at him for a moment, and then swallowed. "Professor, I know I could be a good auror. But my family needs me right now."

"Your family?"

"George. He's… he needs help with the shop."

"And he told you this, did he?"

"No. But I can tell."

"I see." He leaned back. "Have you told George of your plans?"

"'Course not, he'd try to put me off it." Lupin raised an eyebrow, and Ron argued, "Look, you don't know my brother like I do. He needs my help, Professor!"

"Ron, if George is going to dissuade you from working at the shop in any case, I suggest you follow your original ambitions." When Ron opened his mouth, Lupin held up a hand. "And speaking as one who's lost family myself," he said gently, "Forced charity, even if needed, usually only serves to make things worse. Until he's willing to accept your help, I suggest you give him his space and learn a valuable skillset in the meantime." When Ron still looked unconvinced, Remus added, "You're not abandoning your brother, Ronald."

"…You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

At last, a real grin broke across the young man's face. "Alright then… looks like I'm going to be an Auror."

Remus chuckled. "I like your confidence. It's nasty business, mind you– but I think you can handle it. Now let me see, here's the form. Full name?"

"Ronald Bilius Weasley…"

* * *

By quarter past six, Lupin's list had dwindled down to one name. He noted with a frown that the name, _Potter, Harry,_ had appeared nowhere on the parchment all day. While it was possible that the boy had simply forgotten, Remus had the uncanny feeling that the absence was more than mere coincidence.

He had precious little time to worry about Harry Potter, however; his most difficult student was last on today's list, and Remus was dreading playing the interviewer as much as he had once dreaded being the interviewee. He closed his eyes, casting his mind back twenty years in hopes of gleaning some wisdom from his predecessor.

* * *

 _…"Please, Mr. Lupin, take a seat."_

 _The young wizard swallowed and closed the door behind him as Professor McGonagall retrieved a file from her perfectly organized rows. Remus slid into the chair as she sat down across from him, removing a blank form. "Full name?"_

 _"Remus John Lupin. Professor-"_

 _"Age?"_

 _"Professor, I don't-"_

 _"Age, Mr. Lupin?"_

 _He swallowed. "Fifteen."_

 _"Thank you." She marked the answer down in the designated box and continued, "Now as you're well aware, this meeting is to discuss any ideas you may have for the future and determine which subjects you ought to take continuing into fifth and sixth year." She glanced up. "Have you any such ideas?"_

 _Remus glanced sideways out the window, the dull weight of depression settling over his shoulders._

 _"Mr. Lupin," McGonagall said gently._

 _"What's the point, professor?" he muttered. "The ministry won't hire me, I'm not allowed to own my own shop and Gringotts has already filled their positions, I've checked._

 _"There are institutions willing to hire werewolves, Mr. Lupin."_

 _"Like where, St. Mungo's? We both know I'm dead useless at potions."_

 _"What about Hogwarts?" she inquired quietly. "You've got quite the skill for teaching, my boy; goodness knows that Mr. Pettigrew wouldn't be passing my class without you."_

 _"You've only got one position open. To be honest, I'm really not interested in a one-year stint ending in sure disaster. Besides-" He smirked wryly. "A dark creature teaching defense against the dark arts? I don't think the parents would go for it."_

 _"Are you determined to be cynical?"_

 _"I'm determined to be realistic." He glanced to the windows again; clouds were gathering over the Scottish mountains, heralding a brewing storm. "It's getting worse out there, Professor," he said lowly. "And you saw the paper this morning."_

 _"Fenrir Greyback is not the determiner of your personal value," she countered sharply._

 _"Nevertheless, the fact is remains that the more paranoid people are, the worse they treat my kind."_

 _She sighed and inclined her head. "Yes, I'm afraid that's quite true. Regardless, Mr. Lupin, I'm afraid we've little choice but to make the best of it."_

 _He nodded, eyes dropping._

 _"Remus," she said gently, and he looked up, surprised. "Many a good man has lived an honest life fixing carriages or tending bars," she reminded him. "Hard work and honesty are qualities to be proud of, no matter the profession."_

 _Remus felt his throat tighten. "…Thank you, Professor," he whispered._

* * *

He was pulled out of his musings as his classroom door opened. "Miss Brown," he said carefully, as the young witch walked purposefully into the room. "Good evening."

"Evening, Professor," she said politely, taking her seat. "How are you?"

"Quite well, thank you." He hesitated. "Miss Brown… I'm afraid I must be frank with you; your… your opportunities may have changed in light of your current condition."

"Well, I originally wanted to work for my mother at the magazine," she admitted, "so there's no real harm there."

"Originally? You have since changed your mind?"

"Well you see, Professor, I've become quite taken with the idea of Healing."

Immediately a warning sounded in his mind, a reminder of old aspirations, childish dreams set aside by the weight of understanding and acceptance. "My dear," he said, as gently as he could manage, "My dear, as admirable as I'm sure your aims are, I'm afraid that far brighter minds than you and I have for many centuries tried and failed to find a cure…"

"Oh, I'm not looking for a cure, Professor," she cut in. "That's not why I want to do this."

"Oh?"

She bit her lip, as if trying to corral her thoughts into one coherent process. "…When I first found out I'd been turned," she said at last, "I was devastated. I couldn't… couldn't imagine why I should keep living."

Remus felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. "Miss Brown…"

"I had no hope," she continued softly, "no courage. I wanted to just waste away… but the healers wouldn't let me give up. Day by day, they helped me find myself again." She looked up at him, a determination in her eyes. "I want to be that person for someone else, Professor. I want to be there to show them their worth when they can't see it themselves. I really feel it's what I'm supposed to do."

A proud feel burned like fire in the teacher's heart. "Then it would be my honor to help you, my dear. Have you spoken with Mother Maria Faustina?"

Lavender nodded. "While I was in the hospital. She said she'd be pleased to receive my application." Remus felt a rush of relief. The Sisters of St. Mungo, long trained to see through malady and affliction to the person within, had long been one of the few major institutions willing to accept lycanthropes onto their staff; despite protests from the population at large, the hospital was basically indispensible to Wizarding Britain, whatever their hiring practices. Remus had considered applying there himself as a teenager, but his abysmal potions skills sounded the death knoll for any aspirations in the medical field, and, being a non-profit, the hospital had little money to pay unnecessary maintenance works. Still, he was relieved to see that the Order still held to its standards of compassion and understanding, especially if it could help someone like him find sure footing in such an unsure world.

"In that case, let's get down to the nuts and bolts." He scanned her file briefly, and felt his heart crumble. _Speak of the devil…_ "I see you haven't taken potions since fifth year?"

"I know," she said seriously, undeterred, "but I can do it, Professor, really. I'll work very hard, and I'm good at potions."

"Yes, er– forgive me, Miss Brown, but your last two final marks would indicate the contrary…"

She blushed and ducked her head. "…I did that intentionally," she admitted sheepishly. "I like potions, really, but I thought boys might lose interest in me if they knew I was smart in something, so…"

"So you sold yourself short," he finished.

"Only in potions!" she protested hastily. "I'm no good at much else, really. But I'm a fair hand at brewing, professor, I promise. Just give me a chance."

He watched her for a moment, trying to discern if she were telling the truth. Lavender's gold eyes were dead serious, and he nodded. "Alright. But I'm not the one you need to convince; you'll need Professor Slughorn's signature to get into the class, and I'd highly recommend you start take his remedial potions lessons these next few Saturdays to help you catch up."

"I will," she agreed fervently. "Oh, thank you, Professor! Thank you so much!"

"Well, don't thank me yet; I don't mind warning you that Healing is going to take quite a bit of work," he warned her, scanning the file. "You'll have to improve your Transfiguration and Charms grades, but your Care of Magical Creatures marks seem more than adequate…" He looked up and smiled as well. "That all being said, it is my personal opinion, Miss Brown, that you would make an _excellent_ Healer."

Her scarred face split into a grin.

* * *

The office door opened, and Draco shifted his feet uncertainly. Blaise Zabini paused glanced at him as he passed by, a smug smirk falling from his face before he looked away and continued down the hall without a word.

Draco slipped inside and closed the door behind him. Slughorn was sitting at his desk on the opposite side of the large room.

"Ah, Mr. Malfoy," Professor Slughorn said nervously, glancing up from the files spread over his desk. "Please, do sit down."

The teenager walked forward, his footsteps echoing loudly in the large room. The chair scraped as he pulled it back and took a seat stiffly, pale hands folded on his lap.

"Now, let's see," Slughorn began, reaching for one of the files. Draco noted that it bore his name along the side, _Draco Lucius Malfoy,_ in neat, slanted handwriting, entirely too familiar for comfort. He felt a lump rise in his throat. His godfather had been a reserved man, rare with shows of affection, but he had looked after the young Malfoy like his own blood. "Professor Snape noted that your preferred career field was, er-"

"Ministry service," Draco finished curtly, the growing anxiety in his stomach making him impatient.

"Yes, well…" Slughorn mumbled, reaching for his pocket hanky to dab away the sweat along his brow. "Well, my boy, I- _ahem-_ I think we can assume that- well, in any case, it may be better to examine other options…"

"Such as?" They had come to the crux of the meeting, the real issue at hand. Draco could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage; the room suddenly felt very warm. Slughorn mopped at his brow again, red in the face.

"Well, your- your grades are for the most part quite adequate. Above adequate, actually, save for your sixth year, and- of course, you didn't attend classes last year," he said with a nervous little half-chuckle that sounded suspiciously unintentional. His eyes flashed to Draco's left wrist, and the boy felt his cheeks burn red. "Of course, one bad year is- is hardly an impediment to, um…"

"Professor, if you have something to say, please say it," the young man said flatly, and Slughorn flushed redder still.

"I- very well- no point in beating 'round the bush-" He muttered, and straightened up. "Well, the long and short of it, my boy, is that current sentiments against, er, certain members of the population- that is-"

"Death Eaters."

He flinched. "Yes. Well. In any case, I'm afraid that, all considered, your career options are… considerably lessened, since your fifth year. I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco nodded, terse and sharp. He'd expected this. "What are my current options?"

Slughorn relaxed visibly. "Yes, yes, of course. Well, in preparation for this meeting I did a bit of asking around, and I found a few establishments that are willing to consider you for a position!" He pulled several sheets out of the file and handed them across the desk.

Draco picked them up and scanned the titles one at a time. With each one, his flush grew darker, his eyes narrowed:

* * *

 _ **The Leaky Cauldron**_

 _Application: FULL-TIME DISHWASHER_

* * *

 _ **Vile Vials: London's Finest Wizarding Inn and Pub!**_

 **Job Application:**

Housekeeping

* * *

 _ **Cauldrons and Co.**_

 _ **(Cauldron Manufacturing for Greater Wizarding Britain)**_

 _APPLICATION FOR EMPLOYMENT:_ _MAGICAL MAINTENANCE_

* * *

Draco felt his hand tightening around the applications, wrinkling the paper. He glanced up to see Slughorn watching him anxiously. "Is this a joke?" the young Malfoy said quietly, rage building in his chest. "Are you trying to be _funny?"_

Slughorn bristled. "Now see here, young man!" he said sharply. "I went to a good amount of effort to finding these applications, and I'll thank you to be a little more appreciative!"

"Appreciative!" He was on his feet now, waving the application in the professor's face. "Appreciative! _This_ is an insult!"

"It wasn't too good for Mr. Goyle!"

"Of course not! Dishwashingwould require every iota of intelligence he possesses! _I_ am not going to waste my life sweeping floors and tending bars!"

"My dear boy, do try to see sense! Public opinion is not exactly in your favor!"

"So therefore my best option is to be a bloody _janitor?!"_

"No," Slughorn said heatedly. "It's your _only_ option."

Draco stared at him, hands trembling, seething with fury. He threw the applications down on the desk and turned around, stalking towards the door.

"Mr. Malfoy! Mr. Malfoy, get back here!" He wrenched the door open; the desk-chair behind him scooted back. "Draco!"

 _BANG!_ The door slammed behind him, and then he was off, down the corridor, steps quickening into a run. He ran down the hall, then another, a flight of steps and through an abandoned corridor and another flight and another, chest heaving, eyes burning, furious with the professor and the Dark Lord and, something bubbling up uncomfortably like shame in the pit of his stomach, himself. He ran and ran until he didn't know where he was anymore, stopping in some empty corridor lined with suits of armor and a tapestry of Marcus the Mad leading an army of nifflers into battle, gasping for air. He wiped at his eyes angrily, and then, with another explosive burst of rage, threw a vicious kick at the nearest suit of armor. _"FUCKING BASTARD!"_ he roared, kicking it again. "You think you're so fucking _noble,_ you stupid, useless little _prick-!"_

 _"Ahem."_

He whirled around. Acid-green eyes and a red-lined smirk looked back. "Mr. Malfoy, isn't it?" Rita Skeeter asserted, walking forward with a sharp _click-click-click_ of her heels and extending a hand. Draco didn't take it, and she smoothed her blonde hair instead. "Quite a violent outburst there, young man. Care to explain its origins?"

"It's none of your business," he said shortly, determined not to show his mortification at having been caught. "If you'll excuse me-"

"Yes, I'm sure you must be busy; perhaps off to a careers interview?" Her eyes gleamed. "Or perhaps… returning from one?"

Draco stared, uncertain what to say. Skeeter was eyeing him with a particularly hungry expression, like a bloodhound who'd caught a scent and wouldn't easily give up the chase. He had no doubt that a refusal to comment would be presented nearly as poorly as an explanation.

Thankfully, there came the unexpected sound of someone clearing their throat for the second time, and Rita's eyes shot over his shoulder. Draco turned.

Professor Lupin looked back, eyebrows raised. "Good evening, Mr. Malfoy. Ms. Skeeter, didn't I see you leaving the Headmistress's office half an hour ago?"

"Professor Lupin," she said smoothly, drawing a quill from her handbag. "Always a pleasure."

He offered a very fake smile. "I'm sure."

"Werewolf, educator, war hero," the journalist listed idly. "The public considers you _quite_ a mysterious figure, Mr. Lupin. Yet after all your work in the war, you're still largely an outsider to wizarding society. Tell me, how does that feel? Upsetting? Unfair?"

"Oh, I can't say I was expecting any dramatic change in public opinion," he replied calmly. "After all, my 'outing,' as you would say, came as rather a shock."

Her eyes narrowed; Draco recalled that it had been one of her articles that had made the scandal of a werewolf professor go public. "Rumor has it you were seen running with Fenrir Greyback's pack."

"Really?" Professor Lupin replied mildly, as if he were discussing lesson plans. "How interesting."

"Was it an act of desperation? Or perhaps a mission on Dumbledore's orders? It's _just_ the sort of thing he'd do, sending a prophet of civility and culture to a community of feral brutes."

If this offended the professor, he didn't show it. "As I have told you time and again, Ms. Skeeter, the details of my work with the Order are and will remain confidential. All the official reports have been filed confidentially with the ministry."

"So you're still determined to keep your role in the war in the dark?"

He smiled. "Quite."

Skeeter scowled, and then glanced to the boy. "What about you, Draco?" she probed, swiftly changing tactics. "Just how fair is the public image of your family? Want to give the world an inner look at the life of a Death Eater? Tell _your_ side of the story?"

"My side doesn't need telling," said Draco stiffly. "Take a look at the battle memorial and you'll know all you need to about the Death Eaters."

"Draco," Lupin said reprovingly.

"It's true, isn't it?" His silver-gray eyes were sharp. "You stupid little twit. All you want is a story, you don't care who gets in your way. The war wasn't a _headline;_ people died here, and I helped it happen."

"Draco!" The young man glanced up at his professor and went quiet. Lupin gave him a warning look, and then turned to the reporter. "I will not have you tormenting my students, Skeeter. You've had your chat with Professor McGonagall, and I don't think she'd approve of you overstaying your welcome."

Her perfectly lined mouth was set in a thin, almost crocodile-like smile. "The truth deserves to be reported, Professor."

"And you deserve to be sacked," said Lupin lightly. "Now get out of this school before I call the headmistress."

Rita gave him a dark glare, but turned and huffed away. When she'd vanished down the hall, Lupin turned to the young man. "Don't suppose you'd like a cup of tea?" he inquired.

The young man eyed him warily. "Why?"

"I hate to waste a warm kettle on one person. What do you say?" When Draco didn't answer, he shrugged his shoulders and started down the hallway. After a moment's hesitation, the student followed, running to catch up.

"…Thank you," Draco said grudgingly, as they headed towards a staircase.

Lupin dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "It was nothing. No one deserves the plight of Rita Skeeter."

"Not even a Death Eater?" Draco said ironically.

Lupin glanced to him curiously. The young man didn't meet his eyes.

"Not even a _former_ Death Eater, no," he said mildly, and Draco looked over, startled. The professor had turned his gaze forward again and didn't speak further, leaving the teenager to follow after awkwardly, quite baffled.

Back in the professor's office, Malfoy waited uncomfortably in the student chair as the man set about making tea, seeming to prefer doing the task the muggle way instead of with a charm. As he waited, he scanned the various knick-knacks on the professor's desk and shelves. A picture of four jocular young boys, one of whom bore such a striking resemblance to Potter that he could only assume this was his father, lay on the desk beside another frame holding the image of the professor's wife and son, laughing and waving at the viewer. On the bookshelves sat several teacher's copies of textbooks, a few specimens of dangerous or fascinating creatures, and on the walls were three framed, official-looking forms. The first was obviously a Hogwarts graduation diploma; the second, a License of Wizarding Education; and the third, on bleached white paper, some sort of diploma which apparently made him a _"Bachelor of Science – Biology"_ from the _"University of Boston,"_ whatever that meant. Eyes flicking back to the pile of forms, he noticed that his own was on top, the very same he'd seen in Slughorn's office not twenty minutes previous. A sharp pang of betrayal ran through him; had the professor tricked him up here to try to convince him to accept his grim fate?

"Here we are," the professor said kindly, setting down the cup of tea in front of him. "Mint and chamomile. Do you take milk? Sugar?"

"No, thank you."

The professor nodded and stirred in two spoonfuls himself, sitting down opposite the teenager with a small toast. "To the future."

Draco matched it and raised the cup to his lips, but didn't take a sip. Part of him knew he was being paranoid, but another part warned him to be cautious. However trustworthy the professor had been in the past, he knew too well how quickly loyalties could change. As he set the cup down, Lupin raised an eyebrow, amused. "I haven't poisoned it, you know," he chuckled. When the boy's eyes shot wide, he added, "I didn't hear you swallow."

"You can't be too careful."

He smiled sadly. "No, I suppose you can't." He picked up Draco's file from the stack and said, "I imagine you've already noticed I have this. I wasn't trying to hide it."

"Where did you get it?"

"From Professor Slughorn. He said you ran out of his office in quite a state."

"…It wasn't his fault," Draco muttered, feeling the anger leech out of him and give way to the rush of guilt. "He did the best he could." His gaze dropped to the crisp white cuffs of his shirt, beneath which the dark mark lay like a shadow against the snow.

The professor sighed and nodded. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "The world is a terribly unfair place."

Draco snorted. "It's hardly unfair. You can't much blame people for not wanting to hire a dark wizard."

Lupin cocked his head. "Is that what you think of yourself?"

"What does it matter what I think?" Draco sneered, but there was no real force to his tone. "It's the truth." He couldn't meet the professor's eyes, but rather stared down at his wrist, fiddling with his sleeve cuff.

"Why? Because you made a few poor decisions?"

"Poor decisions? I put every student in this school in danger. A man is _dead_ because of me."

"You were only a child."

"I was old enough to decide for myself!" Draco said harshly, looking up with hard silver eyes. Remus realized he'd hit a nerve. "Nobody forced me into this, Professor. I was a _willing participant."_ He spat the words like an oath.

Lupin fixed him with a steady hazel gaze. "Both of us know that's not true."

Draco faltered and looked away. "…The Dark Lord gave me a mission," he said at last. "I accepted."

"Because you knew what would happen if you refused."

"Does it _matter?"_

"Of course it matters! Draco, you never wanted anyone to die."

He closed his eyes at that, grimacing. That was not true. No, he had not wanted to kill anyone. But he had wanted, _needed,_ Dumbledore to die. It had been the only way. "You're wrong."

"What do you mean?"

The blond opened his eyes, but was unable to meet the werewolf's gaze. Shame weighed deep on his shoulders, bowing his head.

"…My task wasn't to repair the cabinet… It was to kill professor Dumbledore." Lupin schooled his face to remain emotionless; he knew all this, but to hear it from the boy was still a shock. "As you can imagine, I wasn't supposed to succeed. It was… it was a way of punishing my father, who'd failed to retrieve Potter's prophecy from the Department of Mysteries… I knew I wasn't capable of doing the job on my own, so I intended to repair the Vanishing Cabinet to allow other death eaters into the castle. It didn't occur to me until a month in that the task might be impossible. By Christmastime, I was desperate; that was why I resorted to the mead and the necklace."

Why he had to make the werewolf understand, Draco didn't know. A sudden urge to speak had welled up inside him, to confess at least this sin. He was so tired of bearing this burden alone. "I had to do it, Professor. I had to kill him, or…"

"Or Riddle would have kill them, and you," Remus finished quietly. The boy swallowed. "I know, Draco."

"He could have done it," Malfoy said, voice hardly more than a whisper. "He was already working on bringing the Azkaban dementors under his control at that point, and my mother…" He swallowed. "I knew what would happen to them if I failed him. So I did as much research as I could on vanishing cabinets. When I realized only a trained Alchemist could fix them, I taught myself the subject."

Lupin stared. "You taught yourself Alchemy?"

"Bloody well had to, didn't I?" he said bitterly. "Couldn't fix the cabinet without it."

"But-" The professor's head was spinning. "Draco, Alchemy is a _very_ difficult subject- we don't even offer it until seventh year-" Something dawned on him. "Wait. You fixed the cabinet yourself?"

"Who did you think it was, the Fat Friar?" Draco retorted caustically.

"No, no, I- why, we all assumed you'd taken orders from outside, that someone else was sending you instructions-"

 _"We?"_

He waved his hand dismissively. "The Order. But you mean to say- you actually repaired it- by _yourself?"_

"I didn't say it was easy," Draco snapped, and then relented, "…But yes, I did."

"Draco- you must understand, that is incredibly, _incredibly_ advanced magic; the Ministry itself hires experts to repair their cabinets…"

"Effing fantastic; looks like I've still got one career left to me, don't I?" He muttered. "Except I highly doubt the Ministry will be looking to hiring Death Eaters any day soon."

"But I still don't understand," Lupin insisted. "You're a bright young man, Draco, but I doubt even Professor McGonagall herself could learn alchemy in the space of nine months, let alone well enough to repair a Vanishing Cabinet. So how did you manage it?"

"I- I don't know- I just knew that I had to," the boy said, a little flustered. "And I did."

Lupin's was floored, almost as much as he'd been when he'd first seen three teenage boys calmly turn into woodland creatures on his behalf. A wizard of sixteen years old, never having had so much as a class in the subject, training himself to such an extent? The professor was in awe. This indeed was Slytherin ambition put to a desperate end, yielding literally incredible results.

Draco stood up abruptly, his mouth tight. "Are we done here, professor?" he said curtly, gathering his things. The shame seemed to have disappeared again behind a wall of anger, but Lupin knew he was close to getting through to the boy. He couldn't give up now.

"Hardly," he replied, standing as well. "We haven't concluded your meeting."

"I- pardon?"

"Professor Slughorn, it seems, was of little help; likely he has never faced such a situation as yours before. I think it may be better for me to handle your career advising, if you'd agree to it."

"But- what can _you_ do? It's not like you can change what I am…"

"No," Remus said calmly, opening Malfoy's folder. "That I cannot. But I may be able to help you find a career that doesn't require a- how shall we say it? A perfect track record?"

"I don't understand…"

"Your class marks are really very good, aside from your sixth year," he continued, as if he hadn't heard, "And you seem to have been especially proficient in Potions, Charms, and Herbology. Your Transfiguration marks aren't bad, either- and, as you've mentioned, you've become quite skilled in Alchemy."

"So?" Draco said rudely, but there seemed to be just the faintest trace of curiosity in his voice.

"So, there is one profession I know that requires those NEWTs, that would put alchemy knowledge to good use, and where they may be willing to accept even a man of an imperfect history."

"Really? Where?" A hint of his former passion had returned to his voice; Draco looked desperate for any scrap of belief that the future may hold something other than poverty or loneliness.

"Healing," Lupin said frankly. "St. Mungo's has experienced an incredible boom of business, unfortunate as that may be, in the after-effects of the war. Moreover, they lost a number of employees under Riddle for actively helping muggles and muggleborns; with your skills and interests, it may not be impossible for you to get work as a Healer."

"Professor, I appreciate the effort, but no hospital is about to hire Death Eaters, no matter how desperate they are," Draco said flatly, his face falling. "Besides, it's not exactly a very glamorous career plan, don't you think?"

"Why should that matter? It's steady work, good pay- and you'd be helping a great many people." He raised an eyebrow. "Or is there something else you were planning on doing?"

"…My father wanted me to be involved with the Ministry…"

"But do _you_ want to be involved with the Ministry?"

The blond studied him, clearly a bit confused. Lupin had phrased the question as if it were still an option- as if he were taking Draco's personal interests into account, not just the limitations imposed by the tattoo on his arm.

"Not really, no," he admitted coolly. "Not that there's much point in it now, is there? And to be frank, I- I rather detest the idea of so much paperwork and sitting in a desk all day."

Remus chuckled. "Well, I'm sure Healing has its own levels of tedious paperwork, but it's a far more hands-on job than Ministry work, unless you're considering becoming an auror."

"Dark wizards catching dark wizards," Draco said ironically. "I don't think the Ministry would go for it."

"Probably not," he agreed sympathetically. "Draco, in all honesty: would you _like_ to be a Healer?"

The young man paused, thinking. After a moment, he said, "I'd never really considered it before… but yes. I think I might."

"Splendid," said the professor, satisfied. "Now, let's take a look at your class schedule, shall we?" Draco handed him the piece of parchment. "As I said, aside from your sixth year, your core technical subjects look very promising. A years' worth of poor grades isn't necessarily an impossible roadblock; you'd have to do very well in your NEWTs, however, and- ah…"

"What?"

"You haven't taken Care of Magical Creatures for a few years now. An _O_ is necessary in the subject, due to the number of creature-inflicted maladies…" He gave the blond a wry grin, and then added, "But full participation in the class isn't necessary, just the NEWT. Professor Hagrid should be able to catch you up if you start immediately; you'd need to get him to sign off on joining the class."

Much to his surprise, the young man groaned and muttered, "That's it then."

"Pardon?"

"He would never let me into his class. He hates me."

"Does he?" Lupin said, startled. "I rather think Rubeus Hagrid is incapable of hating anyone."

"No, he does," Malfoy said darkly, "And for good reason. I've been a bloody prat to him, and this is fate's way of repaying me."

"Ahh…" Now he remembered. "You were the one Buckbeak attacked, weren't you?"

"Because I provoked it, yes. And more past that; I'd rather not tell you what."

"Ah. Well, in that case I'll leave you with this advice." Lupin leaned forward in his desk, "Many people tend to be more forgiving than we give them credit for," he said sincerely. "And you have nothing to lose by trying, do you?"

 _Other than my pride?_ But Draco knew he couldn't say this, so he replied only with a, "No, sir." Then, still wary of believing too easily in his sudden change of fate, he added, "Professor, how- how do you know that St. Mungo's would be willing to accept me?"

"I have had the good fortune of knowing the Sisters of St. Mungo for more than thirty years. If I vouch for your character, at the very least they will give you a fair consideration. You can take my word for it."

"You would do that for me?" said the young Malfoy, stunned. "Why?"

Remus looked across the desk to see the bewildered student staring back at him, and he thought back to another anxious young man, desperate for any small whisper of hope, for someone to assure him that the world still held some promise for the future. Oh, the situations were vastly different, in a great many important ways, but that mattered little to Remus now. He looked into the silver-grey eyes of a child who'd grown up far too quickly, a young man whose good heart was beginning to change his rotten ideals, and found his own hope there, too.

"Because I believe in you, Draco," he said, and he knew the boy realized he meant it when the young Malfoy managed just the first hint of a smile.

* * *

It was nearing eleven when Remus at last left his office. He'd spent the last several hours writing, re-drafting and polishing two letters of recommendation to Mother Maria Faustina of the Order of St. Mungo and had full intention of sending them off the following morning. After that, it would be in the hands of God and His strict yet sympathetic servant; Remus could only hope that the promise he'd made to Draco Malfoy would prove true.

He was so lost in thought that he didn't even notice where he was until he heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor some ways ahead of him. When he looked up, he found that he was just in front of the library door, but the corridor itself was quite empty.

Remus paused, confused. The sound of footsteps had vanished. He glanced to the library to find the great oak doors were open just a crack, but the inside was empty and dark. That struck him as odd, for Madame Pince never failed to lock up her precious books. He sniffed the air; the ordinary human wouldn't have noticed anything, but his keen werewolf senses detected just the faintest traces of smoke, still fresh. Someone had recently blown out a candle not far from that very spot. Ergo, someone had been in the library, secretly, after the librarian had already left, and had been unable to lock the door behind them.

More importantly, that someone was still very close by. "Studying late, Harry?" he called.

There was the sound of a sharp gasp and a heavy thump; a book-bag tumbled out of thin air halfway down the corridor and spilled textbooks and spare inkwells everywhere. There was a shiver in the air and the silvery invisibility cloak appeared as Harry shrugged it off. Remus raised an eyebrow and walked towards him.

"P-professor," Harry stammered as he approached. "Er, yeah, lots of homework. Had to, er, stay after hours to get it all done."

"Really? How unusual; most teachers tend to give relatively light workloads the first week of classes."

The teenager gave a rather unconvincing laugh. "Yeah, I- I thought it was a bit odd, too."

"Mm." He nodded to the library. "You know, I practically lived in that library for almost a week out of my fifth year."

"Oh, er, really?" the young man mumbled.

"Oh, yes," he said with a thoughtful nod, "even got James to lend me that cloak for going and leaving. You see, I was avoiding my careers interview with Professor McGonagall."

Harry stared.

"Course, I should've known it was inevitable," the professor said with a wry chuckle. "Our responsibilities catch up to us one way or another, don't you think?" He smiled at the speechless boy and said, "Well. Have a good night, Harry."

"Good night, Professor," Harry replied, rather shamefaced. Remus nodded his head knowingly and strode off, certain that the problem would be solved by tomorrow afternoon.

Dora was already in bed by the time he got back, the apartment dark and quiet. After checking and double-checking the locks and charms on the door and windows, he crept quietly into the bedroom and changed into his nightclothes. His wife stirred as he slipped in under the covers beside her. "You're in late," she mumbled, dark eyes fluttering open.

"Mm. Long day," he whispered back. "Lots of angsty teenagers."

She giggled and brushed his brown bangs out of his eyes. "Teddy missed you today."

"Oh? How do you know?"

"He cried after you left, even morphed to look like you. Took me ages to settle him down."

Remus swallowed the lump in his throat. "Did he?" he said hoarsely.

"Mm. He loves you so much, Remus, and he can't even talk yet."

Unable to speak, he merely nodded in return. Dora reached out from under the covers and brushed the tears from his eyes. "Hey, don't cry," she teased. "That's Teddy's job."

He laughed a bit at that and leaned forward, kissing her on the lips. "No crying. I promise," he murmured, drawing back with that smile she loved, the one that made his eyes crinkle. She snuggled closer to him and buried her face in his shoulder; Remus wrapped an arm around her and let the other rest above her head, playing with her hair. "Goodnight, love," she murmured, closing her eyes.

"Goodnight, Dora." She smiled back sleepily, and then her face faded into a gentle inexpression. Remus lay there for while, stroking her hair, watching her peaceful features with a feeling of remarkable contentment. At last, his eyelids grew heavy, and he, too, drifted off into a deep and refreshing sleep…

* * *

The light from the half-moon beamed down upon the forest, illuminating it in a soft, silvery glow. For ordinary men it was nowhere near enough light for clear vision, but the gold eyes shining out of the darkness caught every fluttering leaf, every flickering blade of grass, to him cast in sharp contrast against the black of the night with their edges cut as cruelly as knives of silver. The eyes flicked again upward and found their target: the great gray silhouette of the fortress against the black night, broken here and there by a great blaze of light from an open window. There was no sound in the forest, save the gentle caress of the wind through the trees, as if the local fauna could tell he was present. The village to his left was dead and silent, as well, but he knew the humans were there. He could _smell_ them…

 _Not tonight,_ Fenrir reminded himself idly. _You just had that man a month ago; striking too soon would ruin the novelty._ The humans were, strangely, always more afraid when the attacks happened few and far between– not so far as to forget their fear, but far enough that they'd almost settled back into their daily monotony. _Then_ you broke into their easy, disgustingly blissful little lives and the horror started fresh. He smirked to himself in a sudden flash of humor, his fangs making the expression far more frightening than pleasant. _Besides, humans are an easy catch. Get fat and lazy now, and where will you be?_

A sharp _crack_ drew his attention, and he turned. Two figures hurried through the undergrowth towards him and dropped to a knee, head bowed and shoulders hunched in submission.

"Get up," Fenrir ordered, and the two stood. "News?"

"Found Fang and Quickpaw in Dorchester, Alpha. Working at some lousy human pub." The first beta, Cyclops (so named for his missing eye), spat on the ground in disgust.

"And you, Brute?"

Brute grinned. "Got a lead on th' Lowells."

The alpha's eyes widened. Despite his bestial looks and personality, Fenrir Greyback was a smart man; what he lacked in formal education he made up for in his keen read of people and situations, even having managed to fake his way out of a ministry trial several decades prior. This instinctive ability was enhanced by his advanced powers of sight and smell, not to mention the fact that most people took one look at his face and assumed him to be nothing more than a stupid animal.

It was a mistake they usually didn't make twice.

Brute, on the other hand, was about as smart as a troll's pet rock collection. That was in part what made him such a good beta; he liked killing and he'd do it whenever allowed, so Fenrir often did the allowing. But the man took orders like a proper underling and had never bothered to challenge ranks. After all, what he had in muscle, the Alpha had in both brawn _and_ brain. In spades.

Which was why it was so surprising that Brute had managed to track down the two slipperiest former members of his pack, and possibly, at the moment, the most valuable. "Yeah? How'd you find 'em?"

Brute shuffled his feet. "Well, uh, actually Ah jus' set Brushtail and Howler on askin' questions. Folk don' loich it much, livin' next t' our sort; figured sooner or later somethin'd turn up."

"So you got lucky," Fenrir deadpanned.

"Uh… yeah."

He sighed. "Well, I guess your luck paid off, Brute. Where are they?"

"Word is they have themselves a little shack south o' Llanbedrog, on th' coast o'–"

A growl erupted in the alpha's throat, startling the two betas. _"I know where it is."_

They fell into silence, the betas stealing uncertain glances at each other. Fenrir narrowed his eyes in an effort to look intimidating. He succeeded.

"…Sh-shall we pay them a visit, then?" Cyclops stammered at last, looking as if he very much hoped he wouldn't be attacked for the suggestion.

Fenrir Greyback feared neither man nor beast nor battle nor cold. Fear made a wolf weak. Fear drove wolves to submission to the humans, to degradation and starvation. No, Fenrir feared nothing, and he certainly did not fear the little village on the edge of the Welsh coast.

Still, it was late, and he was hungry. There were plenty of good, juicy rabbits in these woods, and he doubted there would be many on the seaside cliffs of Llanbedrog. No point in going tonight. He would go tomorrow, or the day after. No reason to concern himself with it now.

"No," he said at last, shaking his head, gold eyes scanning the trees. "It's late. Besides," he said, with a feral grin, "We shouldn't be _rude,_ Cyclops. The pups will already be asleep!"

The other two chuckled at that, and Fenrir jerked his head towards the trees on his right. "I saw a warren not far that way. Let's eat."

As the betas turned off and began to walk through the trees, Greyback glanced back to the castle. On impulse, he swung his fist through the air.

It slammed hard into an invisible barrier of magic and threw him back, as if he'd been struck with lightning. Growling, he got to his feet again, crouching low.

"Enjoy your peace while it lasts, Mutt," he growled up at the castle in the distance. "But mark my words, the pack is coming for you. The pack is coming."

And with that, he turned and ran off into the trees, breaking into a loping run on all fours in search of the warren, his prey sleeping warm and sweet in its den, unaware that soon its peaceful home would be broken open in violence and terror and blood.

 _The hunt was on._

* * *

 **A/N: Ah, and you thought this would be a nice, rolling plot of post-war reconstruction and overcoming prejudices, didn't you? So what did you think! Did I write Fenrir Greyback alright? Tell me what you thought in the comments!**


	11. Chapter 11: Troubling Revelations

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here.

 **Warnings: bullying, cursing, PTSD references, injured thestrals, a minor comment by Madame Pomfrey.**

 **Also, this chapter features an overly-enthusiastic SJW!Hermione! Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

The light and heat of the Sunday morning sun's steady creep over his face awoke Remus before the charmed bell, and for a long moment he simply lay in bed, lazy and content with the knowledge that it was Sunday and he had no work to complete. He hadn't had such a deliciously relaxed feeling in years- not since the morning sunlight had been beaming in through the windows of a teenage boy's dormitory, and the room had been outfitted in scarlet and gold instead of cream and mahogany. Smiling, he turned his head to look at his darling bride, who, in typical Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin fashion, was drooling and snoring, with her hair splayed messily over the white pillow.

 _I've married a goddess,_ he thought wryly, and wasn't quite sure whether he was joking or really believed it.

He started and whirled around as the bell behind him began to cheerfully chime nine. Dora shot up in bed, scrambling for her wand, and then groaned when she realized what it was and flopped dramatically back down on the bedclothes. "Make it stop, Remus; it's too early," she moaned, attempting to backhandedly slap his arm with her face still buried in the pillow. Remus obliged, but then gently shook his wife's shoulder. "Dora, you've got to get up," he coaxed. "We promised McGonagall we'd be at services."

"Nng." She tried to smack him again and this time succeeded. "We'll go… tomorrow…"

"Dora, I don't think that's how this works…"

She moaned again, and Remus sighed, half-exasperated, half-amused. "I'll get Teddy up," he compromised, "and then come get you in a few minutes."

Dora mumbled something which sounded an awful lot like _"fine, whatever,"_ and he snorted, getting up out of bed and making his way to the nursery. He allowed his wife another five minutes while he heated Teddy's mush, and then another ten while he fed the baby. After wiping his son's face clean of any orange-colored goo, he carried the cooing baby into the bedroom and whispered, "Dora, there's someone here to see you!"

"Mm? Who?" she mumbled groggily, rolling over, and then smiled, sitting up. "Ahh, there's my little man. C'mere, Teddy Bear!"

"Oh, I see how it is," Lupin replied, faux-offended, handing her the baby. _"I_ can't get so much as a 'good morning, darling,' but you'll hop right out of bed for _him."_

"Mm, well, he's much cuter than you." She giggled and rubbed her nose against her son's, who shrieked with laughter. "Did you feed him?"

"Mm-hm. And we'd best get dressed if we want to feed _us._ Services start at ten, you know."

"Ooh, mummy and daddy are going down to the village, yes we are! And we're taking baby Teddy to church so he can meet the pastor and the all nice people and God, too!" She paused and looked over to Remus, frowning. "Er- is that right?"

He chuckled a bit to himself. "That's right, Dora." The Blacks, he knew, were not exactly known for being regular churchgoers, and Dora was no exception. Remus, on the other hand, had always taken his Presbyterian heritage _very_ seriously, taught the faith as he was at his mother's knee, and fully intended to raise Teddy the same way.

His wife, on the other hand, sighed and snuggled back into the pillows, letting the child rest on her chest. Teddy pawed at her face. "You're sure we can't just stay here? Like, forever?" she said, smiling lazily and brushing the baby's (currently pink) hair with her fingertips.

"Come on, Dora; I have the _worst_ craving for bacon."

"Oh, alright," she said with a scowl, getting out of bed and balancing Teddy on her hip. "If your _bacon_ means so much to you…"

"Mm. Well," he said dryly, and when she turned he brushed a hand against her chin and stole a kiss, making Dora grin, "I can't say I don't occasionally like something a little sweeter."

* * *

"Honestly, Seamus, you're going to choke; slow down!"

"Oh, lay off, Hermione," Ron said eagerly, "This might be a new record!" He, Harry and Dean Thomas were all watching with appreciation as their roommate finished the last half of a muffin with one mouthful and then washed it down with a whole goblet of pumpkin juice. "Time?" he demanded, dropping the goblet back on the table and smacking his lips.

"Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds!" Dean crowed. "That's five seconds faster than the time you missed your alarm!"

"Brilliant!" The tower clock chimed half-past, and the Irishman cursed under his breath. "Blast. Gotta go, or Fr. Flyte'll have me head." He gave them a quick wave before jumping up and hurrying for the door. Neville scowled and threw Dean a sickle, huffing.

"You shouldn't be encouraging him," Hermione reproved, wearing a similar expression. "After everything we've survived, I'd rather not see our classmates die over a _chocolate muffin."_

"Oi, watch what you say about the chocolate muffins," Ron said, pointing a fork at her indignantly. "Those things are perfection in a cup."

"Mail's here," Neville noted, as a flock of owls soared into the hall. There was a collective cry from the first years as their goblets were knocked over by a sudden downfall of Sunday papers; the seventh-years, by now experts in the art, reached out and caught them before they could hit the table. Harry frowned as he unfurled his paper and turned to Ron.

"Hey, look at that."

Ron did, and his eyes widened. "Wow." Throughout the hall, whispers began to buzz at the picture plastered across the front page.

Several tables away, Draco Malfoy calmly took a bite of his toast and reached out to take his Sunday paper as his Horned Owl, Cassiopeia, swooped down to deliver it. As he did so, he began to notice students turning in his direction, peering in confusion and something more– fear and anger. Up at the staff table, Professor McGonagall's eyes had gone wide behind her spectacles, glancing up at him in shock, her spoon of bread pudding paused halfway to her mouth. Professor Lupin's face had furrowed in a deep frown, his wife touching his shoulder in concern.

With growing trepidation, Draco turned to his newspaper and undid the twine binding it in a roll. As he smoothed the paper out flat, he found the reason for the sudden attention. A moving black-and-white photograph of himself in the holding cell in Azkaban, awaiting his trial several months prior, glared out at him, and above the picture blazed a stark black headline:

 **Darker Marks: How One Teenage Wizard**

 **Brought About the Death of Albus Dumbledore**

 _ **By: Rita Skeeter**_

Draco closed his eyes tight in horror. Professor Lupin had been right. He should have realized she wouldn't leave, not after he'd just offended her; how could he be so _stupid…?_

Slowly, as if wishing the article would just vanish away, he opened his eyes.

* * *

 _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has long enjoyed a reputation as a safe haven for the staff it employs and the students who call it home. Despite the security breaches that led to such tragedy last May, newly-appointed Headmistress McGonagall assured me in a personal interview (11 September) that, "…While nowhere is without risk, this school is among the safest wizarding institutions for any young student of the magical arts. There is no need whatever for concern."_

 _Recent events, however, may lead one to inquire as to whether the new Headmistress's actions truly reflect this attitude. Despite that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Himself laid siege to the castle not five months previous, Professor McGonagall has seen fit to allow several Death Eaters to return to the school as her pupils- including one Mr. Draco Malfoy, the man directly responsible for the death of the beloved Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. Mr. Malfoy himself seems to be relishing in his having escaped the retribution of the law. "Take a look at the battle memorial and you'll know all you need to about the Death Eaters," he informed me (personal interview, 11 September). "People died here, and I helped it happen."_

 _One of these "people," it would seem, is the late headmaster himself. Shortly after joining the ranks of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, then-sixteen Draco Malfoy was assigned the prestigious task of bringing down one of the Dark Lord's greatest foes. Mr. Malfoy, it seems, took this honor upon himself with the utmost dedication: he devised elaborate schemes to ensure the headmaster's death, including two failed assassination attempts involving a poisoned bottle of mead and a cursed necklace. Much to his displeasure, these dangerous means were never delivered to their intended target, instead causing great harm to his innocent fellow students._

 _While these attempts were prematurely thwarted, one, it seemed, was destined to succeed. "I knew I wasn't capable of doing the job on my own, so I intended to repair a Vanishing Cabinet to allow other Death Eaters into the castle," continued Mr. Malfoy. On 30 June, 1997, his efforts came to fruition: several fellow Death Eaters (including his aunt, the notorious Bellatrix Lestrange) entered the school via the repaired Vanishing Cabinet. Mr. Malfoy then led his companions to the Astronomy Tower, to where the unsuspecting headmaster had been lured._

 _Thankfully, however, Mr. Malfoy's final plan was foiled: the late Professor Severus Snape arrived at the scene with only moments to spare and, as had already been pre-arranged with Professor Dumbledore, took the headmaster's life with merciful swiftness, in order that the Dark Lord might not come into possession of the dangerous magical artifact known as the Wand of Destiny. (For more details on the Wand, see my upcoming biography, Scars: Harry Potter and the Dark Lord's Downfall.)_

 _Apparently ungrateful for his escape from the hands of the law, Mr. Malfoy's ambitious nature has not lessened– nor, it may be added, has his propensity for seeking out mentors of a darker nature. Werewolf Remus Lupin, newly reinstated professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, seemed more than willing to help the former Death Eater achieve his goals. "His class marks are really very good," says Lupin. "I may be able to help him find a career that doesn't require a- how shall we say it? A perfect track record?" Lupin, although widely recognized as one of Dumbledore's elite inner circle, has been mysteriously vague about the details of his work during the War, and refused to either confirm or deny rumors that claimed he ran in the pack of Fenrir Greyback, the fearsome werewolf still at large and known for his history of attacking children._

 _Mr. Malfoy admits to former aspirations for a career in the Ministry; what, precisely, his new objectives will include remains to be seen. In any case, Professor McGonagall certainly has an obligation to make a full inquiry as to the nature of Mr. Malfoy's future ambitions, as well as to keep close watch on any students or staff who show reason for concern._

* * *

Draco didn't dare look up after he had finished the article. He could hear the hall buzzing around him, his name laced into the whispers. One glance up told him all he needed to know: every student in the Hall had turned to stare at him, some with shock, others with obvious venom. Feeling the heat rush to his cheeks, he shoved the article into his bag and stood up, suddenly no longer hungry. So intent was he with escaping the hall as quickly as possible, he did not even see the foot reach out from the table of Ravenclaw fifth-years.

He hit the ground before he even knew he'd been tripped, books spilling everywhere. Several people laughed; a few others catcalled. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to his knees, gathering his books into his arms. His wrist throbbed painfully, as if he'd sprained it, and his robes were torn at the knee where they had scraped the stone. "Serves you right, Death Eater!" a voice spat nearby.

 _Death Eater._ His stomach twisted hard. Unable to see for the burning in his eyes, he grabbed his potions book off the floor and told himself that _he would not cry, not here in front of the whole blasted school–_ when suddenly he heard a voice cry out, "Oh, can't you leave him _alone?!"_

Draco looked up, startled, wondering as to the identity of his defender, and found himself looking into a pair of bright gold eyes. "Come with me," the girl said quickly, helping him up and away as people jeered behind them.

She led him out of the hall and down a corridor, where she stopped and let him go. "Are you alright?" she demanded. "They didn't do anything else to you, did they?"

He shook his head mutely, still cradling his injured wrist in his good hand, and did his best not to blink. If the girl noticed the shine to his eyes, she didn't make mention of it, but instead nodded to his wrist. "Let me see that."

Warily, he extended it to her, not daring to roll up his sleeve. No doubt she knew what it covered, but he'd learned from experience in the last few months that knowing and seeing were two very different things. The girl, however, didn't so much as flinch; rather, she pulled out her wand and tapped it lightly, murmuring, _"Episkey."_ Instantly the pain vanished and the ligaments realigned themselves under his skin.

"…Thanks," he muttered, glancing up. "Brown, right?" She nodded, and he said, "Well, er… I suppose you saw the morning news…"

"Rita Skeeter is a vile cow," said the girl fiercely. "I mean, what she said about Professor Lupin…"

Draco, much to her surprise, was in agreement."She had no right," he spat. "The professor didn't do anything to deserve that."

Brown cocked her head, startled. "So… you don't mind that he's a…?

She trailed off, self-consciously twisting a curl of blonde hair and releasing it so it fell in front of her eyes, as if half-hoping it would distract from the hideous scars cut across her face. He remembered that she had been Fenrir Greyback's latest victim and forced himself not to stare. "Were you… that is, are you…?" He realized it was not the sort of question one asked and shut his mouth.

Brown stiffened. "What's it to you?" she asked coolly, and her hand twitched towards her bag, eyes flicking towards the wrist she had just healed.

Draco felt a rush of deep shame and didn't answer, eyes narrowing. "Look, not to be ungrateful, Brown, but why exactly are you helping me?" he demanded, voice growing frosty in his embarrassment.

She fidgeted, suddenly uncomfortable, and he suddenly realized the motive behind her actions. _Ah, of course. Kinship with her own kind, that's natural enough._ Much to his surprise, however, she expressed nothing of the sort. "…That article," the werewolf said, chewing on her lower lip, "That could have just as easily been about me. It would have been, if you hadn't been the bigger scandal."

"So?"

"So, I- I don't know," she replied, blushing. "I just… don't like seeing people treated that way, that's all."

 _But I deserve it. I don't have to like it, but whatever way I'm treated now, I deserve it._ He stared at her uncomprehendingly, and the girl shifted her schoolbag and said, "I-If you go down to the portrait of the bowl of fruit, there's a secret passage into the kitchen. I'm sure the house-elves would give you some food, if you don't want to go back into the hall. Just tickle the pear and it'll let you through."

"…Thank you," he said uncertainly. Brown nodded her head and turned, heading back towards the hall. Before he could stop himself, he called out, "Professor Lupin saved my life."

The girl turned, startled. Draco flushed. "During the battle, I mean… he's a good man."

He hoped she'd caught the unspoken implication. Perhaps she had, because Brown's face softened slightly. "Yes. He is," she agreed, and then turned and disappeared around the corner.

* * *

The walk to Hogsmead was cool and breezy, leading the three teenagers to pull their cloaks tighter around their necks. "That was a horrid article," Hermione ranted for the fourth time. "I'm really starting to think we ought to turn her in!"

"Personally, I think Malfoy got what was coming to him," Ron snorted. "I mean, did you see his face when that kid tripped him? I thought he was going to cry-" He stopped short when he saw Hermione's glare at his smug expression and added hastily, "So, um, we should probably track that kid down later and give him detention?"

"Just so," she agreed nobly, and then added, "Let's hurry, I want to get to _Scripts and Scrolls_ before it fills up; I heard they're releasing a new biography on Hesper Starkey today."

"Yes, I'm sure the book store is going to be just _brimming_ for that," Ron said sarcastically. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"It wasn't fair what she said about Professor Lupin, though," Harry argued as they hurried through the busy streets. "He'd never hurt anyone, let alone a kid."

"That's just the problem, Harry," Hermione replied grimly. "It's not _what_ she reports that matters, it's _how_ she reports it. It's just this sort of thing that makes people think there _aren't_ any good werewolves out there, and then they feel justified doing whatever they please to them. Oh, here we are!"

They'd reached _Scripts and Scrolls;_ all four of them stopped in the street and stared, open-mouthed. Large posters covered the windows, emblazoned with shocking gold letters reading,

 **Scars:** **Harry Potter and the Dark Lord's Downfall.**

 ** _On Sale This Halloween!_**

There was a picture of Harry looking very brave and heroic beneath it, framed on either side by a noble Ron and gravely intelligent Hermione. A small crowd had surrounded the window, preventing them from getting any closer.

"Bloody basilisks," Harry muttered, at the same time that Ron said in half-hopeless, half-awed resignation, "Good picture, mate."

"Look! It's him!" a voice cried, and the whole crowd turned. Harry barely had time to think, _oh no,_ before he and the other two were being swarmed on all sides, asked for autographs and pictures and "Would you sign my copy, Mr. Potter?"

"Alright, alright, you lot, leave them alone, _clear out!"_ a voice called, and the crowd swarmed away like a cloud of hornets as a chubby witch with merry blue eyes and indigo robes pushed through. "Terribly sorry about that, Hermione, dear; I forgot you'd be by today or I'd never have put that poster up. Oh, and these must be the boys; do all come inside out of the wind."

The inside of the bookshop was wonderfully warm and smelled deliciously of parchment and leather, arranged like a labyrinth of bookshelves into which the blue-eyed witch disappeared, humming a little tune. The shelves were filled with tomes of fiction and history and magical study; near the front there was a small supply rack that sold inkwells and quills, and Ron, ever the practical, quickly became engrossed with a beautifully crafted brass typewriter that chimed like glass whenever a line was completed. Harry sidled up to Hermione, who'd become engrossed in a copy of _Le_ _Morte d'Arthur and Other Legends_ _(Wizarding copy with facing Muggle text),_ and muttered, "What d'you think I should do about that?"

"Hm? About what?"

"About the biography, Hermione!"

"Oh!" She closed the book and looked up, frowning. "Well, honestly, Harry, I think the only thing you _can_ do is file a suit against her."

"Yeah, I was thinking that, too. Can you help me?"

"Well I'm not a barrister _yet;_ besides, that wouldn't be my specialty," she replied, and then added thoughtfully, "Although I'm sure Tonks would know someone, if you asked. And of course it would depend on whether the story were defamatory or not."

"Yeah, but this is Rita Skeeter we're talking about," Harry reminded her, and thought nervously of every mean or rotten thing he'd ever done in his eighteen years of life. He knew Skeeter wasn't above using less-than-legitimate means of finding them, either; he could only imagine the sort of stories she'd get from a five-minute visit with the Dursleys.

"You know, Harry, there _is_ one obvious solution," the witch pointed out, flipping to a page halfway through the book.

"Yeah? What?"

"Well… you _could_ just write the biography yourself. If it came from you, Rita's book would never sell more than a hundred copies."

"What? No way!" He stared at her as if she'd grown a second head. "I'm not writing an autobiography, Hermione! C'mon, what would I even call it?"

"Oh, I dunno, mate," Ron said with a grin, walking over. "I think _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ sounds pretty epic."

"Not a chance," Harry said flatly. "Besides, no one's going to want to read about us, I dunno, eating mushrooms and sitting in tents for weeks on end."

"You could do a whole series!" Ron chortled, clearly not dissuaded. _"Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets! Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix!"_

"Now _that_ just sounds pretentious; we weren't even in the Order."

They were still bickering about it by the time they left the bookshop, Hermione with her book and two more in hand. The witch, whom Harry and Ron had learned was named Madame Meriwether, had upon learning the truth behind the biography agreed to remove the poster and vowed that she wouldn't sell a single copy. "What about _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire?"_ Ron suggested.

"Yeah, well, I still think _Harry Potter and The Time I Nearly Died at a Bloody Dark Magic Cult Ceremony_ has a better ring to it," Harry groused. "Or _Harry Potter and The Time Nobody Believed Me About It, Either._ Oi, Hermione, which way do we go? I've never been in this part of Hogsmead before."

"We're on the south end; the main street is to the north. We'll cut through the churchyard, this way…"

There were two churches in Hogsmead, located in an open space in the heart of the town. To the west sat the Scottish Presbyterian kirk, with its crisp white steeple and proper rows of flowers by the door, and to the east an ancient RC church, _St Guinevere the Penitent,_ which was all stone and stained glass and looked about as old as Hogwarts itself. Between these two was a wide green which Hermione said had been the place of a famous duel between Father McKinley and Reverend MacIrving, the kirk's founder, sometime in the sixteenth century (neither of the boys found it interesting enough to recall the date).

Now, quite apart from going to battle, the two parishes coexisted more or less peacefully, and crowds of churchgoers were pouring out of the front doors onto the green together as the bells of St. Guinevere's chimed eleven. "Oh, there's Professor McGonagall!" Hermione exclaimed, starting towards the kirk. The boys caught sight of the headmistress, dressed in stiff black robes with a hymn-book in hand; beside her were Lupin and Tonks, the later of whom was holding Teddy on her hip. "I've got to talk to her about my research essay-"

"Not right now, you don't," Harry said quickly, catching her elbow and steering her in the opposite direction.

"What? _Harry-!"_

"Look, just- talk to her later, alright? _Please?"_

But now the two were looking at him very oddly. "What're you on about, mate?" Ron inquired with a befuddled frown.

Harry hesitated, and then muttered, "I haven't gone in for my careers counseling yet."

 _"What?"_ Hermione was aghast; Harry shushed her. "Harry, that's awful! You really ought to go in, the sooner you get your applications finished the better!"

"Mate, it's fine," Ron reassured him, "trust me, Lupin's not going to bite your head off. Well, not right _now,_ anyway-"

Hermione whirled on him. "Ron!"

"What? It was just a joke!"

"A very _insensitive_ joke! Look, Harry," she said, as Ron pouted, "getting your applications in is _terribly_ important! If you don't submit them soon, you might have to wait a whole year to apply again!"

"Look, I just forgot, alright? I'll get it done soon. I _promise,"_ he said, when Hermione gave him a look, "I'd just rather not have that conversation _here."_

She glared for a moment longer, and then sighed. "Oh, alright. No point in ruining a nice Sunday morning, I suppose." She shivered suddenly, and Ron looked over, concerned.

"Cold, are you?"

"Just a bit. Fancy a butterbeer?"

"Unless you two would rather go to Madame Puddifoot's," said Harry nonchalantly, and grinned when the other two burst out with comments of, _"Certainly_ not!" and "Come off it, mate!"

"Actually, we've been meaning to talk to you about that," Hermione said awkwardly, as they started in the direction of St. Guinevere's. "This doesn't change anything, Harry; you do know that, don't you? I mean– we're all still best friends, nothing's changed…"

"No, it has," Harry said with a shrug. "You two are together now, that's a big difference. Just tell me when you want me to shove off and I will." He glanced over to see the two giving each other a worried look, and laughed. "Seriously, I'm fine with it. Frankly, I've been waiting for it to happen for years…"

"You're not the only one," Hermione mumbled under her breath, and then grinned when Ron blushed. They were just about to head down a road of shops when Hermione stopped suddenly, causing the other two to turn back.

"What's up?" Ron demanded. Hermione didn't answer, frowning curiously at the church door. As they watched, a certain blonde-haired figure dressed in familiar a raspberry cloak determinedly crossed the crowded green. Not far off, Parvati and Padma were watching with nervous excitement as Lavender Brown approached Seamus Finnigan, who was standing outside the church door in full black cassock and lace surplice, bidding Madame Pomfrey a good morning.

Lavender appeared to steel her will, and then spoke up, biting her lip. "Hullo, Seamus."

The young wizard turned, surprised. "Lavender! How are you?" he said, grinning, but there was nervousness in his voice. Harry glanced over to see Hermione's eyes narrow.

"Fine, I'm fine," she chirruped, but it was clear she was anxious. "Er, Seamus, I was wondering…." Lavender took a deep breath. "W-when you're done here, would you like to get a butterbeer with me?"

The immediate area around the two suddenly went quite quiet; half the crowd hastened politely away, the other half– mostly students– pretended not to pay attention while still listening in eagerly. The young werewolf had blushed a rosy hue of pink, highlighting the waxy white of her scars.

"Er, um… Lavender, look," Seamus said quietly, drawing her aside, but the trio were still in earshot, "I-I don't think that would be the best idea."

"…Oh?" the witch whispered hoarsely.

"I-I just…" Seamus rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably and sighed. "See, I had me talk with Professor Lupin on Friday," he said apologetically. Lavender's eyes widened. "And, well, he helped me see what I'm supposed to be doing with me life… and you, _this,_ it can't be a part o' that. I'm sorry, Lav, really."

"Oh," she whispered again, eyes going a bit glossy. "I see."

"We'll still be friends," Seamus pleaded. "It's just, things will be different now. You knew they would be."

"Yes… I suppose I did, deep down." She offered him a watery smile and wiped her eyes. "I do hope you'll be happy, Seamus, really."

"Thank you, Lav. I knew you'd understand."

At this, Hermione let out a noise of wordless anger and broke her silence, stalking over. "You utter and absolute _arse,_ Finnigan!" she snapped, startling the pair. "How could you!"

"Pardon?" said the wizard, surprised.

"You've fancied her for _ages,_ don't pretend you haven't, and now that she suddenly doesn't meet _your_ standards because of something she didn't even _choose-"_

"Oh- no, Hermione, you don't understand!" Lavender interjected.

"Oh, I think I understand _perfectly!"_ she shrieked at the traumatized acolyte. "You know, I could understand this from someone like Malfoy or Zabini, Seamus, but you! I thought you were better than this! I guess it goes to show you don't really know a person until-"

 _"Hermione, he's joining the clergy!"_ Lavender exclaimed, cutting her off.

Hermione broke off, gaping silently for a moment as Seamus let out a breath of relief. "O-oh," she stammered. "As in…"

"As in the Catholic clergy," Seamus finished, flushing. "So, no girls."

"Oh," Hermione said again, rather stupidly. "Oh. I-" She was quickly turning the color of a ripe tomato. "I'm sorry, Lavender, Seamus, really, I- I didn't think-"

"That's alright," Lavender replied, a little shell-shocked. "But, er, thanks for the support, Hermione."

"Yes. Right. Um- sorry again. Right." She turned and hurried away as quickly as she could without running, ignoring the chortles from the other students.

Ron was still snickering two blocks later. "It's not that funny!" Hermione snapped. "How was _I_ supposed to know what they meant?"

"Maybe if you just kept your nose out of it…" Harry murmured, intending for only Ron to hear, and was therefore quite startled when the glass of his spectacles suddenly turned opaque. "Oi- _Hermione!"_

* * *

The halls of the castle were empty and quiet, deserted of the students who would rather be spending their time on the grounds or down in the village. Draco Malfoy, having finished his breakfast of tea and muffins from the kitchen, had taken to walking the more deserted parts of the castle, thinking to himself. Thinking about the article, about Lavender and Professor Lupin, about his parents and the War and the Dark Lord, about the tattoo on his arm and the application bearing his name sitting on a desk somewhere in St. Mungo's. He thought for a long time about that. He'd only been to St. Mungo's a handful of times; his father avoided the place like the plague, the white walls and cheerful healers bearing too many bad memories for the head of the Malfoy household, but Draco held no such resentment for the hospital.

Ever since the professor had assured him that the Sisters would at least consider his application, the prospect of being a Healer had grown clearer and realer in his mind. He had begun imagining hurrying through hospital halls in a green robe, barking orders in triage, testing potions in the laboratories. His optimism was burgeoning, it was too strong now to quell it. Part of him relished in the possibility of discovery and accomplishment, his natural ambition stretching towards opportunity; another quieter, humbler part just wanted the chance to try to make a little bit right, after all he'd done wrong.

A third part was adamantly insisting that he be cautious, wary of getting his hopes up: how could he be so foolish as to put his faith in the mercy of strangers, however good and generous they claimed to be? He knew the real world, he'd seen how it worked. Most people, if given the chance, would do what benefited them and those they loved rather than take chances on the wellbeing of a outsider, let alone a convicted criminal only given a second chance on a mere a technicality.

He thought about all of this as he walked the quiet, empty halls of Hogwarts, wrestling with himself and his uncertainties. Pausing beside a window, he watched as the specks of dust floated lazily in the late-afternoon sunlight. As he did so, he noticed something moving along the grounds below, a large dark speck against the green, and he frowned, trying to make it out. After a moment his eyes adjusted; it was the gamekeeper, carrying what appeared to be an injured thestral over his massive shoulders.

Draco felt the painful jolt of a duty left undone; he'd been putting off asking the bumbling professor for permission to join his class for two days now, and he wasn't looking forward to the task one jot. He knew he'd have to do it by the end of the day, as the next Care of Magical Creatures class happened Monday afternoon.

Draco was no Gryffindor; he had rarely been brave simply for the sake of bravery and had only begun considering characteristic nobility a valuable trait within the last few months. But he was a Slytherin, and that meant accomplishing one's goals regardless of difficulties, even if that meant getting his hands a little dirty. So, mustering up all the courage he could find in his snake's heart, Draco swallowed hard, set his shoulders and turned towards the nearest stairwell.

Ten minutes later, he found himself standing on a grassy knoll overlooking the groundskeeper's hut, permission papers in hand and unable to make his feet take another step.

Not far below him, the half-giant had set the thestral down on its side, gently brushing its neck and speaking to it even as he bandaged what appeared to be several long gouges in its side. "Easy there, girl," Draco heard him murmur, "Jus' hold still-"

Quite against his request, the thestral let out a pained whinny and flinched as the groundskeeper pressed a strip of white gauze along a laceration. Draco grimaced in sympathy; the man sighed deeply and patted its neck. "Jus' a few more, girl, an' then yeh can rest, I swear it…"

"What happened to her?"

Draco didn't even realize he'd spoken until the man started and turned. They stared at each other for a long moment, the former reddening, and then the groundskeeper nodded warily. "Mr. Malfoy. How d'yeh do?"

"Fine." He nodded to the thestral, asking again, "What happened to her?"

"Oh." The half-giant rubbed the back of his neck and looked to the injured animal. "Can't say I rightly know, ter be honest. Ain't never seen anythin' like this before." He glanced to the blond and said uncomfortably, "Yeh mind if I…?"

"Oh, no. By all means." The half-giant nodded and knelt down again, picking up the gauze and what appeared to be a sort of salve. Draco crept over, curious despite himself. "…Is she going to be alright?" he questioned, as the man continued his ministrations.

"She'd be dead by now if she weren't," the groundskeeper grunted. "These wounds are at least a day old; looks like she got away quick enough, but I don' want them getting' infected…"

"That's what the salve is for?"

"Mm."

He fell silent, watching as the man pasted on another strip of cloth. The wounds were long, he noticed, perhaps about a foot in length; five cuts, evenly spaced, with the first generally shorter than the others. "These marks," Draco noticed, frowning deeply. "They look like they were made by human hands."

"Mm. Tha's what's got me puzzled." He finished his work and wound up the massive ball of gauze, screwing the cover back on the jar. "See how most o' them go fer the rump or the nose? Tha's typical wolf hunt behavior, 'cept I've never heard o' a wolf with five claws."

Perhaps it was because of his recent meetings with Lupin and Brown, but Draco's mind immediately caught onto the idea of wolf-man. "Werewolves?" he questioned, and received a sharp look from the half-giant in return. "I didn't mean it like that," he added quickly.

"Oh. No, full moon was more'n a week ago; these cuts are fresh," the groundskeeper dismissed. "Besides, their hands turn inter paws, too, and I've never known a werewolf ter hunt a thestral. Nah, my closest guess is a Veela– though why in Merlin's name there'd be a thestral-huntin' Veela in our forest…" He patted the thestral's neck and stood up, dusting off his hands. "I'll have Lupin take a look at her later, see if there's somethin' that's wandered into the forest that needs takin' care of." Draco was slightly nervous to realize he wasn't exactly sure what the groundskeeper meant by _"taking care of."_

"Well now," the man said, turning to face him. "Any reason fer yer visit, Mr. Malfoy, or were yeh just concerned about Dusky here?"

"Er- no, actually…" He lifted the permission papers, uncertain. "I, er…." _I desperately need to take your class, despite having been an absolute prick to you in the past. I'm extremely in your debt, and I promise that I won't try to get you sacked this time. Let me take this course, pretty please?_ "I need a favor," he settled on.

The man's bushy eyebrows rose. "Oh."

"Yes…"

They stood there awkwardly for a moment or two. The thestral let out a little whinny. Draco felt the cold wind flip at his blond hair and shivered.

"Blasted wind," the groundskeeper rumbled, frowning and glancing to his cabin. "D'yeh fancy a cup o' tea?"

"Oh. Er…" Draco glanced towards the tiny wooden hut. He could see meat cleavers on the wall and hams dangling from the ceiling. An absurd image of Potter and his friends at the evening meal popped into his head:

 _"Best stew I've ever had, wouldn't you say, Weasley, old boy? Wonder what's in it?"_

 _"Sort of tastes like ferret to me. Say, where d'you suppose Malfoy's gotten off to?"_

The man was still waiting. Draco swallowed and decided that, all things considered, this was a chance he had to take. "Sure. Why not?"

"Swell. I've got a kettle boilin' on the fire." He turned towards the cabin and stumped off without a backwards glance. With growing trepidation, the boy followed.

The inside of the cabin was warm and cozy, smelling of leather and salt. There was a bed in one corner beside the merrily crackling fire, a table in the center, and, tucked in beside the fire, what appeared to be a very old writing desk, covered with papers and books. Draco shut the door behind him and watched nervously as the gamekeeper bustled about the kitchen. "What d'yeh take? Milk or sugar?" he called over his shoulder.

"Plain, thank you."

"A'right then." Draco's eyes widened as the man reached for the cleaver. _Sweet Merlin, this is the end._

Very much to his relief, the massive hand missed the cleaver and hit instead upon a cabinet door, which it opened and retrieved two large ceramic mugs. The groundskeeper– _Professor_ _Hagrid,_ Draco reminded himself, _call him by his proper name or you'll never get into the class–_ poured a helping of black tea into each and then handed one to the boy, gesturing for him to take a seat at the table.

"So," he said pleasantly, but not without a little mistrust, "What can I do yeh fer, Mr. Malfoy?"

That sounded receptive; a good sign. Draco stalled by taking a drink of his tea; it was still hot and very strong, but it warmed him right to the bone. "I, ah," he set the cup down, "I was wondering if– well you see, Sir–" The man's beetle-black eyes widened at the title, "–that is to say–"

"Spit it out, lad," said Hagrid gruffly.

Draco nodded. "Right. Er, well, I need to be in your class." He winced at the bluntness of it and hastened to add, "I mean, I would be very appreciative if I could join your class. Sir."

"Oh." The professor frowned at him, apparently confused. "I thought yeh didn' like me classes. Dropped them, didn' yeh?"

"Um." _Um? UM?_ _You are a Malfoy; you can do better than "um!"_ "I, well, I made a mistake. In that regard." He took another drink of his tea and wished it were a dram. Maybe then he'd have a little more courage. "I really need this class, Sir. See, I've- I've sent in my application to St. Mungo's, or Professor Lupin has, I mean, and–"

"And yeh can't be an Healer without a Care o' Magical Creatures NEWT," the man cut in, understanding dawning across his features. "I see."

Draco swallowed. "And, er… that's not the only reason I'm here, Sir."

"Oh?"

The embarrassment snaking through his stomach suddenly tightened, choking the words in his mouth. He knew he owed the man an apology, knew it full well, but he couldn't make himself do it. Apologizing was _not_ in the Malfoy nature… and, to be honest, Draco didn't much want to admit to himself just how much of an arse he could be, either.

 _Stop your stuttering and act like a man,_ a voice that sounded an awful lot like his father sounded in his mind. _Malfoys also take responsibility for their actions. You made this problem, now fix it._

The professor watched, confused, as the young man took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"I-I wanted to apologize. I know I've been a- a real prick to you, in the past, and whether or not you let me into your class, I think you have a right to know that. And, well, I'm sorry." He flushed and opened his eyes, gaze dropping to the mug of black tea in his hands.

Hagrid eyed him, surprised and not a little suspicious. "So. Yer sorry fer gettin' yer Da to call the Ministry on Buckbeak?"

"Yes," Draco mumbled, shame-faced.

"An' fer tryin' to get me in trouble with Norberta?"

"Ye- who?"

Hagrid waved his massive hand impatiently. "My dragon."

"Oh. Oh, yes." _Although dragons are pretty dangerous…_

"An' fer causin' trouble in me classes?"

"Yes."

"An' fer tryin' to get me sacked?"

"Yes."

"Multiple times?"

"Yes…" He winced again and added, "Especially for that. I had no right. I've been a foul git to you, and- and I really am very sorry for it." When Hagrid didn't answer, he grimaced and stood. "I'll be on my way then- I'll tell Professor Lupin it didn't work out-"

"Whoa now, where're yeh goin'?" Hagrid said, surprised. "Yeh've got two weeks o' homework ter be catchin' up on!"

"I- what?

"An' another year o' readin' to do- hold on now, I'll get yeh yer books…" He stood and went shuffling through the hodgepodge mess on his desk.

Draco couldn't believe it. "You're- you're letting me into the class?"

"Well o' course I am; couldn't very well turn yeh down, could I? Not after an apology like that. Besides, if yer really wantin' to be a Healer, yeh'll be needin' an _O_ in the NEWT- never took it meself, mind, but I'm guessin' yeh can't pass it wi'out knowin' yer class-work… Here we go!" He pulled out a thick textbook triumphantly from the pile. "That's last year's- an' here-" Another book, "-that's this year's. We've done up to chapter two; yeh've got an Acromantula essay due on Tuesday, but I think I can give yeh a what'd'yeh-callit– an extension, 'at's it, until Thursday. That sound a'right with yeh?"

"Y-Yes!" Draco stammered, startled. "Yes, it's- that's fine, that's- thank you-"

Hagrid dismissed this with another airy wave of his massive hand. "Don' mention it. Two pages, front an' back."

"Two pages. Thursday. Acromantulas."

"Right. Now yeh'd best be gettin' on to Professor Lupin- he'll be needin' to change yer classes, won' he? I think he went down to services this mornin', but I'm sure he'll stop by his office on th' way back…"

"Right- yes- thank you again-" The blond wizard hurried for the door, unable to help smiling. As he opened it, he remembered something quite suddenly, and turned back. "Sir?"

Hagrid blinked. "Huh?"

"You- You didn't mention… being sent to Azkaban. When I was apologizing, I mean." He swallowed. Even the mention of that awful prison made him feel sick.

The half-giant looked startled. "O' course not. Why would I? Wasn't yer fault, was it?"

"No- but my father-"

"But yer not yer father," Hagrid said, as if this were obvious.

To Draco, it wasn't. "People tend to lump us together," he replied, confused.

"Well, who yer father is isn't something yeh can help, is it?" The half-giant's black eyes were both serious and kind as he said simply, "Yeh can't judge people on where their family comes from- only what they choose to do with themselves. Yeh see?"

The irony did not escape the young wizard, who managed a small smile. "I think I'm starting to," he agreed. "Have a good day, Sir."

"An' yerself, Mr. Malfoy."

The blond gave him a nod and then left, shutting the door behind him. As the truth of the situation washed over him, he began to laugh in relief. He pounded his fist into the air and whooped for joy in a manner that would have made his ancestors cringe as he hurried up the path to the castle, intent upon rushing straight up to the Defense classroom without a moment's waste.

Back inside the hut, Rubeus Hagrid chuckled to himself and finished off his mug of tea. Maybe people really could change, after all.

* * *

"I can't believe it. He _actually_ let me in!"

Remus grinned to himself; the boy was practically gleeful. "I should get him a Christmas gift…" Draco said thoughtfully, which was really a much more pleasant look on him than his sneer.

"Mm. He likes useful things, if I recall correctly," the professor mused. "Or baked goods."

"Good to know. Oh, I nearly forgot– he said he wanted to talk to you, about an injured thestral. He's not sure what hurt it."

Remus frowned. "Did he?" The blond nodded. "Thank you, Draco. I'll go see him now; you go on down to dinner."

The young Malfoy nodded and headed for the door. As he was about to go, he turned. "Sir," he said hesitantly. "Professor Hagrid said– well the thestral, he said the wounds suggested a wolf attack. But it couldn't have been, Sir."

"Oh? And why not?"

"The creature– that is– it had five claws. Five, not four."

Lupin stared. The young man bit his lip. "I just thought you ought to know, Sir."

"Yes…" His mind was whirling. "Thank you, Draco. I'll see to it, right away."

The young man nodded and left, leaving the door open a crack behind him. Remus organized his class notes for the next morning and set the permission slip aside to be filed with McGonagall on Monday, and then sent a patronus to Tonks informing her he'd be a bit late to dinner. Then, fastening his cloak tightly around his shoulders, he departed the classroom and locked the door behind him.

Clouded dusk was falling over the green when he found his way outside, the wind whipping his cloak close against his legs and racing through his brown hair. Somewhere not far off, a crow cawed twice and then fell silent. The scent of rain laced the air, the wild sort of smell that meant a storm was on its way, setting him strangely on-edge.

He found Hagrid halfway down the hill to his hut, holding a yellow-burning lantern in the dim light. The man raised a hand in greeting, a black shadow against the indigo clouds. "Evenin', Lupin!" he called through the wind. "The young Mr. Malfoy told yeh I was needin' yeh, did he?"

"That he did!" He approached the taller figure, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the lantern-light. "Something about an injured thestral, I hear?"

"Mm-hm. Thought yeh might take a look at it, see if yeh've any idea what got ter her."

"I'll do what I can." He followed the man down the hill to the edge of the hut, where the silhouette of a thestral lay on the ground. She stirred as Hagrid approached and knelt down beside her. "Hullo, girl," the half-giant murmured, patting her head fondly. "I've brought a nice man here ter see yeh; jus' want ter take a look at yeh now, alright?" As he spoke, he carefully removed one of the bandages, and Remus's stomach twisted at the ugly sight. "A'right, Lupin, let 'er smell yeh, now…"

The professor approached carefully, hand extended, but as soon as the thestral caught his scent, she let out a screaming whinny, milky eyes wide, rearing and kicking as she tried to get to her feet.

"Whoa there, girl!" It took a good deal of Hagrid's considerable strength to restrain the beast without harming it; Remus retreated quickly and waited until the gamekeeper had calmed her down, stroking her neck soothingly. The thestral's breathing was still labored. "Blimey, can't imagine what got inter her; she's usually the friendly sort…"

"I don't blame her," said Lupin grimly, approaching the creature from behind so that she wouldn't notice him. "I can tell you right now, Rubeus, it was definitely a werewolf that got hold of her."

"Can't be; the wounds are fresh. Full moon was over a week ago, wasn' it?"

"Mm." He nodded as he knelt beside the thestral, trying not to let her catch his scent; thankfully, the wind was in his favor. "That's the troubling part; whoever it was, they weren't transformed."

The half-giant let out a low sigh. "An' here I was, hopin' we had a mad Veela or summat escaped from Mungo's. How can you tell?"

"I've seen hunts like this before. It's standard pack dynamics; surround the animal, take out the haunches and bring it down." He spread his hands like claws over the lines of bandages and found them too small. "They were Ferals, too."

"They?"

"There were at least two of them, but no more than three. That's why they lost her." He frowned. "To try to take down a thestral with only two hunters, they must have been starving…"

"There're plenty o' rabbits in these woods. Why go after a thestral?" Hagrid wondered.

Remus shook his head. "Rabbits are a poor source of iron; try to live off them too long and you'll get sick." He lowered his head and breathed in deeply through his nose, before shaking his head again, looking up. "I can't pick up a scent. She must have licked the wounds clean, poor beast."

"An' yer sure they were Ferals?" Hagrid's voice was somber, black eyes gleaming in the light from the lantern.

"Positive," said Lupin gravely. "Only Ferals have claws like that. No, if they were Tame they'd have used a tool, some sort of spear, perhaps. This lot tried to take her down with their bare hands."

The groundskeeper let out a low sigh. "So we've got two Feral werewolves, runnin' round the Forest."

He shook his head. "They've already moved on. I've been in the village all day, I'd have detected the scent for certain."

"If the wind was in the right direction."

"Fair enough. But I'm fairly sure they're no longer here, I would have noticed something."

"If yeh say so," he rumbled. "But some'un still has ter tell the Headmistress."

"Probably best if I do the honors," Remus sighed. "It's good you found her, Rubeus; if there've been Ferals anywhere near this school recently, we'll have to put extra security out. The villagers need to be warned, too."

"Righ'. You head on up, Remus; I'll be along."

"Will do." He turned and headed up the path towards the front doors of the keep, ducking his head against the wind. As he did so, Hagrid called:

"Remus? Are yeh doin' a'right?"

Surprised, he glanced back. The man's face was half-cast in shadow, but the part that was lit bronze by the lantern looked stony. "Only I read that ruddy article, in the paper this mornin'," he nearly growled. "Foul harpy, that woman."

"She's written worse about me before. Worse about both of us, actually."

"Aye, she has. But now with this…"

Remus was silent for a long moment, and then replied, "I'll be alright, Rubeus. But your concern is much appreciated, I assure you."

The half-giant nodded sagely. "Right. Well, take care o' yerself, Remus."

The defense professor returned the nod with a wry smile and then turned, hurrying back up the path. He reached the side-door just as thunder broke along the horizon, and the cold rain swept in, falling across the dusky hills in sheets of grey. The castle, in comparison, was wonderfully warm and dry, but the chilled darkness outside seemed to have seeped into his skin, piercing deep through his heart and setting the usually mild-mannered man into a base harshness. Any straggling student who crossed his path quickly skittered out of the way, startled by the swift pace and luminescent yellow of his eyes.

He slipped into the Great Hall as inconspicuously as possible and hurried up to the dais where the staff table was set. Dora was present as well, seated beside Professor McGonagall and trying to spoon-feed Teddy mushed peas. "Remus!" she said in surprise, as he rushed up the steps. "Goodness, love, you look a fright! What happened?"

"I need to speak with you and McGonagall," he said in a low voice, drawing the Headmistress's attention. "Hagrid found an injured thestral in the forest. Looks like it was attacked by Ferals."

 _"Ferals?"_ Dora exclaimed, at the same time that McGonagall demanded, "Are you certain?"

"Beyond a doubt, and Dora, if you could _please_ lower your voice? I'd rather not send the whole hall into a riot."

"Are they still here?" McGonagall questioned.

"I didn't pick up anything, but I can't be certain. I don't think it could have been more than two or three, or the thestral wouldn't have escaped-"

"Do you know who it was?"

"Afraid not. I couldn't lift a scent off the wounds."

The Headmistress's face had gone white, but she nodded and turned to Dora. "Tonks, dear, if you could send in a call-"

"I'll get on it right away," she vowed, standing. "Remus, if you could take Teddy-"

 _CRASH!_

Everyone jumped as the oak doors rebounded against the walls. McGonagall and half the staff table was on their feet immediately, Lupin included, his mind flying to every sort of creature who could throw such massive objects in with such force–

But there was no creature. Nothing at all, in fact, except for one petite middle-aged witch, wearing too much makeup and dark hair escaping her bun in flyaway strands. Violet sparks crackled in a halo around her as she strode quickly, heeled boots clicking, to the Ravenclaw first-years' table, and Remus realized in awe that the doors had been thrown open by the sheer force of her magic.

 _"Get up, Bobby; go pack your things, we're leaving–!"_

"I beg your pardon!" McGonagall called, aghast, and hurried down the dais steps in their direction, several other teachers trailing in her wake. "Who, may I ask, are you, and how did you get into this castle?!"

The witch drew her wand; everyone in the hall gasped, the nearest scooting back on the benches. With feline reflexes the Headmistress drew her own, and then stopped, green eyes flying wide. "Aerona Baines?"

"Professor McGonagall," the woman said stiffly, not lowering her wands. "Just the woman I wanted to speak to."

"And were you incapable of doing so over letter?" the Headmistress demanded. "Or in a private meeting?"

The witch ignored this. "I'm taking Bobby home. I thought you were mad, letting criminals back into this school, but this! Putting our children at risk, have you no shame?!"

McGonagall bristled. "This school is among the safest places in all of Europe for young wizards; if you're insinuating I would _ever_ put my students in danger-!"

"Then what is _this?!"_ the witch shrieked, pulling a crumpled newspaper from her pocket and shoving it in the headmistress's face. "Murderers and monsters, in these very walls!"

"The trials were public knowledge! You knew _full_ well that those boys would finish their schooling here–"

"The Malfoy boy was bad enough, but that, _that_ crosses a line!"

She flung a finger in the direction of the Defense professor, standing just behind the headmistress. The hall fell dead quiet.

"Mrs. Baines," McGonagall began, nearly trembling with fury, "It was clear from your son's book list just whom I had decided to employ this term. You were under _no_ obligation–"

"The booklist!" the witch scoffed scornfully. "Anyone could have overlooked that!"

"Your inattention to detail is not the school's fault," said the headmistress coldly. "Moreover, Remus Lupin is one of the most talented and I daresay most honorable Defense professors with whom I have ever had the honor of working. If you have a problem with him–"

"Professor," a soft voice said, and McGonagall glanced behind her, surprised. "If you will allow me…?"

The headmistress bit her lip, and then nodded and stepped aside. Mrs. Baines's eyes narrowed; she leveled her wand, even as Bobby whispered behind her, _"Mum, he's nice, he's never hurt me or anything…!"_

"I understand your reserve," Lupin said carefully, stowing his wand and raising his hands in peace, "Believe me, I do. Which is why I have done everything in my power to make sure people like you will never have to suffer the way I have suffered."

"Get away from us," the woman whispered fiercely, her hand shaking.

"I would never hurt you or your son," he continued gently, "Nor anyone else, not willfully. Your son could have a great education here, please… don't deprive him of that because of me." He extended a hand and stepped forward. "Please-"

The witch brandished her wand, and Remus just had time to realize his mistake before he was lifted off his feet and flipped head-over-heels backwards.

He landed, _hard,_ on the Gryffindor table, crying out as he slammed into the ancient oak and several goblets and plates. He caught a brief glimpse of the witch sweeping her son out of the room, oblivious to the gasping and shouting of the students and staff, before he shifted his hand sideways and then choked out a noise of pain, jerking away. His hand hit another piece of silver, burning him, and he scrambled off the table in a mess of skittering plates and falling cutlery, burning himself, knocking the wind out of his lungs as he hit the hard stone. For several seconds he lay there, heart pounding, dimly noticing as students crowded around him. The world seemed to be fading in and out of focus.

 _"Remus!"_ He recognized that voice, dimly aware that it was his wife's, but he couldn't place her in the rapidly de-focusing mob. _"Let me through! Let me through, that's my husband!"_

 _"Professor, you're bleeding!"_

Dazed, he touched a hand to his head, and drew away to find a thick, red substance dripping from his fingers. _"…Pr'b'bly… tomato…"_

The slurred speech struck him as oddly funny, and he laughed a moment before he realized that he had the _worst_ headache, and really, it had been a very exhausting day. Even the stone floor seemed so terribly comfortable…

 _"Oh no, Professor, don't go to sleep! Professor!"_

As the world went black, he had the sudden realization, about which he could not bring himself to care, that he was displaying quite a few of the symptoms of a concussion.

* * *

 _"Remus."_

His brow twitched in annoyance. Certainly it wasn't time for class already?

 _"Remus, we need you to wake up, love."_

He moaned and shook his head. A splitting pain shot through his skull and his eyes snapped open, staring around wildly. This wasn't his room. This wasn't his bed. Where was Dora? Dora? _Dora!_

"I'm right here, love! I'm right here!"

A pink-haired face swam into his vision, and Remus realized he'd called her name out loud. "Dora, where in the world…?"

"Don't try to talk just yet, Professor," a voice said to his left, and he flicked his eyes over. One worried Lavender Brown, hair tied up and having donned a student orderly's apron, looked back. "I'll go get Pomfrey and McGonagall; they wanted to know when you woke up…"

She hurried away, leaving behind only Dora. "What in Merlin's name happened?" he groaned.

"You got a good crack on the head, love," the auror said sympathetically. "Madame Pomfrey's healed the concussion, but you've still got a hefty goose-egg, there."

He frowned and raised a hand to the side of his head, just behind his ear, wincing as his fingers brushed over the tender lump. "…The silverware…"

"She gave you some dittany for your burns. You'll have a bit of scarring for the next few days, but it'll go away." Dora scowled suddenly, her hair going a stormy color of indigo. "That bitch…"

"I'm fine, Dora," he sighed, sitting up. "Just let it go…"

"Let it go! Remus, she assaulted you!"

"She was scared," he countered firmly. "She thought her son was in danger. Either one of us would have done exactly the same thing for Teddy."

There was a long pause, and then she sighed and nodded. "Yeah, I know. But that doesn't make it right!"

"No, but it makes it understandable." He reached out and squeezed her hand. "Nobody got seriously hurt, Dora. That's what matters."

"That's debatable," she grumbled, but was prevented from arguing further by the approach of Madame Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall.

"Evening, Remus," said the later, sitting down on the bed beside his. "How are you feeling?"

"I've been better. Then again, I've also been worse," he replied with a chuckle. "My concussion's gone, isn't it? I can leave now?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" the Healer said sharply. "You're staying right here until I'm certain you're well!"

"Really, Sister–"

"No arguments, Mr. Lupin, now drink up."

Well-used to her domineering ways, Remus accepted the de-swelling potion she handed him without complaint. After gulping it down, he turned to McGonagall and his wife with a grave, "If I remember correctly, we have bigger problems than angry housewitches at the moment."

McGonagall glanced meaningfully to Lavender, who turned to Madame Pomfrey. The Healer nodded. "You're dismissed, Miss Brown." The girl ducked her head and hurried off.

"I've already alerted Arthur and set three of my best men on combing the forest," Dora informed him as the infirmary's door shut. "They'll send me a patronus if they find anything."

"And we have four guards each on the ramparts and patrolling the village," the headmistress added. "No one's getting into this castle unless they belong here, Remus. And…" She hesitated. "You know we'll have to warn the students. The villagers will need to be informed, as well…"

"Fine." His face was very grim. "We don't take chances with Ferals. I've met a few good ones in my time, but most of them wouldn't have any qualms about attacking a student, let alone a shopkeeper."

The conversation paused as three blurs of silver shot into the room. _"Nothing to report, Chief,"_ the first patronus, a salamander, hissed promptly.

 _"Nor I, Chief,"_ agreed the leopard.

The rooster ruffled its feathers. _"I found some blood and rabbit bones on the eastern side, all the marrow was sucked out. But they're days old; whoever did it's already moved on."_

"Thanks guys. Kopp, Payne, you join the patrols; Haywood, you're off for the night."

The three patroni nodded and vanished. McGonagall stood. "I have to write a letter to mayor, let him know to alert all the villagers to be cautious." She glanced to Remus. "I imagine the Daily Prophet will have another special soon."

"So be it. The more people who are aware, the better."

She gave a sympathetic nod and disappeared from the wing. Madame Pomfrey turned to Dora and said frankly, "My patient needs to _rest."_

"What, and he can't do that if I'm here?"

The Healer sniffed as if she very much doubted it. "In my experience, Mrs. Lupin, the pangs of new love are _not_ productive to recuperation!"

Dora's hair went magenta even as Remus groaned, _"Really,_ Sister…"

"Two minutes. Then out!" She bustled away into her office, leaving the two to laugh awkwardly and glance at each other, still red.

 _"The pangs of new love,"_ Dora snorted. "Merlin, you'd think we were a pair of hormonal teenagers!"

Remus snorted and leaned up to give her a lingering kiss. As Dora drew away, her face fell. "…Okay, she might have a point."

"Mm. Perhaps, yes." He grinned and tapped her nose. "Go take care of Teddy, I'll be alright."

"Fine, fine. Goodnight, Remus." She leaned down and gave him a brief peck on the forehead. He smiled a bit, and then winced. "Hey," she said seriously, tilting his chin up to meet her eyes, "That woman is just an awful old hag. You know that, don't you?"

He opened his mouth, but didn't answer.

 _"Remus."_

"She was frightened, Dora." He smiled sadly. "Goodness knows I'd be far more prejudiced than her, if I weren't what I am."

She sighed and brushed his hair back with her fingers. "You're such a good man," she murmured. "Feel better, love."

"I will. I love you, Dora."

"Love you too." She winked and then vanished behind the curtain barrier. Remus waited until he heard the door close, and then sighed.

Madame Pomfrey peeped her head out of her office. "Was that all? I gave you a full two minutes."

Remus chuckled. "That's all, Sister."

"Well, then." She walked over, holding a Dreamless Sleep in her hands. "You really ought to rest, if you want to be ready to teach tomorrow."

"Will do. Thank you, Sister."

The Healer's smile softened, reminding him of the first time he'd met the good sister when he was just a shy young boy, almost thirty years ago. "Anything for one of my favorite patients." She handed him the potion and squeezed his shoulder fondly. "Sleep, Remus."

He nodded and uncorked the potion, downing it one go. As darkness began to settle in again, he caught a brief glimpse of Pomfrey dimming the lantern, before drifting into the soft comfort of sleep…

* * *

Everyone in the Gryffindor common room stirred as the portrait opened, revealing a tired-looking Lavender Brown. "How is he?" Hermione demanded, rising to her feet. "Is he going to be alright?"

"He'll be fine," Lavender replied, undoing her bun and letting the ringlets fall around her face. "He had a concussion, but Madame Pomfrey set him right."

"Did he look upset?"

She shrugged. "Madame shooed me out before I could ask any questions. I think they wanted to talk about something important and didn't want me overhearing."

The rest of the room's occupants– the Trio, Ginny, and Neville– glanced around at each other. "He looked really on-edge when he first came into the Hall," Hermione recalled worriedly. "I've never seen him so…"

"D'you think he knew about the witch?" Ron wondered.

"I don't think so. It seemed like he was almost…"

"Scared," Harry finished.

The room fell into a brooding silence at that. At last, Lavender sighed and said, "If it's something important, they'll tell us as soon as they can. I'm going to bed."

"Lavender," Hermione began, but the werewolf shook her head.

"It's fine, Hermione. Good to know what to expect, right?" She tried to smile, but it didn't really work. "Oh, Ginny, here." She reached into the pockets of her robes and handed the redhead a small vial, before turning and heading up the stairs without another word.

"I think I'll turn in, too," said Neville, standing. "Long day tomorrow."

"Me too," Ron agreed. "Harry?"

"Yeah, I-"

"Actually, Harry, I wanted to talk to you," Ginny broke in. The other three shared a look, and Hermione quickly made her excuses. All three vanished up the stairs, but Ron spared him a look of warning that clearly spoke of fiery retribution should his best friend have any ill intentions towards his sister.

Quite the contrary, however, Ginny seemed to have no romantic intentions on her mind. As soon as the doors were closed, she withdrew the dreamless sleep from her pocket and held it out. "I told Lavender I needed it," she said quietly.

Harry shook his head. "I've told you, Gin, I don't want to get dependent on those things."

"Harry, you need your rest!"

"Look, Gin– whatever this is, I'll get through it on my own," he promised, pushing her hand back towards her. "I just need some time, alright?"

"That's just your problem, Harry! You _always_ try to do things 'on your own!' Let other people help you for once in your life!"

"I didn't mean it like that–"

"I know. But–" She extended the vial again. _"Please,_ Harry, at least just take it up with you." When he still looked uncertain, she tilted her head in a rather convincing way and looked up at him with her big, hazel eyes. "It'd make me feel better."

He struggled for a moment, and then caved. "Fine," he muttered, taking the vial. "That's bloody low, Gin, using that face…"

"It's for your own good." She touched his cheek, worry writ across her features. "Please, just… take care of yourself, Harry. For me."

His anger abated. "…I'll do my best, Gin." She smiled sadly and nodded. "Have a good night."

"You too." She stood on tiptoes to kiss him, and then made her way up the stairs to the dormitory she now shared with Hermione and the rest. With a low sigh, Harry did the same. He changed and crawled into his four-poster, closing the curtains and casting a few wordless silencing charms. Determined, he hid the Dreamless Sleep under his pillow and then closed his eyes. He _would_ do this without potions and spells. He _would._

It was only many hours later, after shooting awake in bed with screams that echoed back at him from the charms on the curtains, that he finally broke and gave in. Wiping at his eyes angrily, he gulped the mixture down and then lay back against the pillows, furious with himself and Voldemort and a war that was supposed to be over. Slowly, his anger abated as the potion took effect, and he had the drowsy thought as he fell asleep that being a hero wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

* * *

 **A/N: Another long chapter; sorry! Hopefully the next one will be shorter. Please tell me what you thought! (I run on reviews, folks!) God bless!**


	12. Chapter 12: Perversions of Justice

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do I profit from this work produced here.

 **Warnings: PTSD, dead rabbits, brief reference to Remus and Tonks,** _ **er,**_ **enjoying the domestic felicities of marriage.**

 **Side note: to** _ **CanisLupinHomoSapiens:**_ **thank you for your interest in the story; I'm really glad you like it!**

 **Regarding my inclusion of religion in this story, I'm afraid I'll have to respectfully disagree. We know from internal evidence in the books that, regardless of Harry's own upbringing, Christianity is present in Wizarding Britain in similar fashion as it is in modern real Britain: that is, some practice it, some don't, but the history is definitely part of the culture. I actually wouldn't have touched the issue of religion except for the fact that Minerva McGonagall's father was in canon a Presbyterian minister, and her faith would seem to me an incredibly important part of her character makeup. That's going to become more significant as her role in this story continues.**

 **Moreover, some would say that it would be inappropriate to pair two characters together who in canon have no interest in each other, but that's common enough on this site to the point where the pairings can get a little disturbing. As such, I don't see any problem in using religion to flesh out some of the characters. I am sorry if it came off a little heavy-handed; I tried to avoid that, but maybe I wasn't entirely successful.**

 _ **In the interest of full disclosure to all of my readers,**_ **I am a Roman Catholic and this story (and all of my stories) will always be based on the Catholic philosophical tradition, if not explicitly then certainly implicitly. That is the way I have written my works in the past and I don't intend to change that policy anytime soon. If that costs me readers, well, that's their loss, not mine: they're going to miss out on a darn good story.**

 **In all seriousness, though, thank you for your review and your support; I hope this didn't sound like an attack (which wasn't what I was trying to do), I just wanted to explain my reasons for including a religious element to my work. Fanfiction for me is about more than writing good fiction; it's meant to uplift virtuous behavior and inspire my readers to real courage. That's my real purpose in all of my work. I know that's not everyone's objective when it comes to writing, but it is mine, and I intend to continue doing it for as long as I am able.**

 **Enough talk; on with the story!**

* * *

Remus stirred his porridge absent-mindedly and glanced over to where the headmistress was taking a prim sip of her pumpkin juice.

"Remus, you need to eat," Dora murmured beside him, trying to spoon-feed Teddy his mushed pears.

He offered her a wan smile. "Not much of an appetite, I'm afraid…" He glanced again to McGonagall and felt his stomach twist.

"You don't have to be here for this–"

"Yes, I do. It will look worse if I'm not." He took a steadying breath and offered her an apologetic look. "Sorry. I'm just… nervous."

His wife pursed her lips, and then nodded, squeezing his hand. "You've done nothing wrong," she said firmly. "Remember that."

He swallowed and nodded, trying to eat another bite of porridge for her sake. Dora sighed, and then stood, balancing Teddy on her hip, and walked over to McGonagall.

"For Merlin's sake, just put him out of his misery!" she hissed, shooting a pointed look towards Remus.

"That is exactly what I am trying to do," McGonagall said lowly. "The nearer we are to the beginning of class, the less likely it is I will cause a riot."

Dora opened her mouth to reply, and the noticed that the headmistress had barely touched her own plate. "…Thank you," she murmured, and the older woman glanced up with a nod.

As the clock struck quarter-to and the students began to gather their bags, Professor McGonagall stood and, pressing her wand to her throat, murmured a low, _"Sonorus."_

"If I might have everyone's attention!" she called, voice magnified out over the hall. The flurry of motion stopped as the students turned, surprised. "Thank you. Before class begins, I'm afraid I have an unfortunate announcement to make."

The students glanced around at each other, worried murmuring filling the hall. McGonagall turned and gave Remus a nod. He took a deep breath and set down his spoon, rising to his feet.

"As some of you may have noticed, Professor Hagrid rescued an injured thestral yesterday morning from the Forbidden Forest. With help from Professor Lupin, we have identified the wounds as having been caused by Feral werewolves."

Whispers broke out across the hall. At the Gryffindor table, Harry turned, confused, as Hermione let out a low noise of shock. Ron had turned ghost-white. "What does she mean– feral werewolves?"

"You don't know?" Ron said hoarsely. Harry shook his head. "Blimey, mate, I keep forgetting the muggles didn't tell you this stuff–"

"There are two kinds of werewolves, Harry," Hermione said uncomfortably. "Tame ones, like Professor Lupin, and… and Ferals, like Greyback."

"So what, Ferals are the ones who attack people, or…?"

"Not exactly," she said quietly. "Any werewolf can attack, if they've not taken Wolfsbane… but Ferals, those are the ones who _hunt."_

Harry felt slightly sick. Behind him at the Hufflepuff table he heard a girl whimper, "Wh-what would they be doing here?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?!" one of her classmates said in a raised voice. "It's because of _him!"_

The hall broke into a whirlwind of shouting and angry arguments. McGonagall fired off a shot, then another, quieting the students. "That is _enough!"_ she said sharply. "We have no proof whatsoever that this is in any way connected to Professor Lupin; moreover, were it not for his expertise, you would all be in far more danger. As it is, I am henceforth canceling all future Hogsmeade visits–"

Shouting and cries of _"That's not fair!"_ erupted across the hall. Another shot quieted them. "–until we are certain the village is safe!" McGonagall barked. "That is the final word! Seventh years will also bear in mind that strict security checks will be implemented and additional wards set up; you may leave the school if you wish, but the risk will be on your own heads.

"Furthermore, Chief Auror Lupin has assigned guards to the school battlements and the village; if you encounter anything suspicious, you are to flee the scene and contact one of them or us immediately. Does everyone understand?" There was a collective grumbling and sullen agreement, and she nodded. "Very well. Now all of you, off to your classes."

The hall erupted into a storm of whispers and activity. Remus saw a thousand uncertain glances dart his way; his hands tightened into nervous fists. He glanced over as Dora rested her slender fingers overtop his own, and offered a weary smile.

For the first time all term, he was the last to arrive to his classroom. He could hear the buzzing through the crack in the door as he paused, briefcase in hand. To little surprise, he found that the dialogue consisted mainly of speculation on Ferals, what they were doing near the castle, himself, and werewolves in general.

The chatter stilled as he pushed the door open, every head turning to look at him, wide-eyed. Several of the students even had the grace to blush. "Good morning," he said, far more calmly than he truly felt, and paced to the front of the classroom, setting his briefcase down on the desk. He saw the students shooting looks at each other as he took out his class notes and set them on the podium. "Today we begin the more practical part of the course. As you may or may not know, Seventh Year Defense focuses on Magical Beings, as opposed to Creatures or Dark Magic. Can anyone tell me the difference between the first two?"

He glanced up to see the students staring at him with obvious apprehension. Even Hermione, who usually could not help but answer a question when it came from a professor's mouth, did not dare reply. "Come now," he said with an awkward chuckle, trying to set them at ease, "I know your Defense education has been a bit lacking, but surely you can at least differentiate between Beings and Creatures."

Tentatively, the young witch raised her hand. He nodded. "Hermione?"

"A Being has sentience, self-knowledge," she said, tone uncharacteristically uncertain. "Such intelligence is usually recognized through language and free will, that is, the ability to choose between right and wrong. Creatures do not possess these abilities."

"A textbook definition, Miss Granger, thank you. Now, can anyone provide me with an example of a Being?" He nodded. "Seamus."

"Humans, sir," said the young Irishman, lowering his hand.

"Humans, excellent." He waved a wand at the board; the words _'Humans (homo sapiens sapiens)'_ appeared in chalk. "Anything else?"

"Veela," Ron volunteered. The professor nodded and added it to the list; Harry was surprised to see that it fell under _humans_ as _"homo sapiens vilas."_

"Giants!"

"Merfolk!" With each species, the professor added another name to the board, including what the muggle-raised students recognized as the taxonomical term.

"Trolls?" one of the younger Slytherins suggested. Several people broke into giggles.

"Actually, yes," Remus said with a nod and a smile, "Trolls, although of admittedly lesser intellect that wizards, are indeed sentient beings with both a language and a sense of morality; as such, they can be held accountable for their actions against each other and other species. By magizoologist classification they are Beings; however, the Ministry has them labeled under partially-sentient Creatures. Alright, so we have humans, veela, giants, merfolk, and trolls; can you name any more?"

"Werewolves," someone coughed. Everyone turned, but no one seemed to know who had spoken.

Lupin went quiet for a moment, and then said, quite evenly, "Well, that depends on who you ask, and at what time." He waved his wand; _werewolves_ appeared on the board, but without a following taxonomy. "Twenty-nine days out of the month, the Ministry registers werewolves as Beings; during the full moon, however, the classification switches to Creature."

"And what do you think, sir?" one of the Hufflepuff students asked bravely, and Remus smiled a bit.

"I consider werewolves beings," he replied, walking back towards the board; the term vanished, much to the surprise of the students. "Partly because I think it ridiculous to consider myself a creature, and partly because I am a scientist." He turned, shrugging his shoulders. "On a biological level, werewolves and, as it happens, vampires, are merely humans infected with a particularly troublesome disease."

"But what about on the full moon?" Dean Thomas interjected. "I mean, you're not human then, so…"

"Actually, I am; the transformation is a form of forced animagancy, and, like all apparent interspecies transfiguration, the genetics of the animal in question don't actually change, whatever form they may take." He scanned the class for the next question to find that many were staring at him, quite confused. Lupin frowned, startled. "Surely you've covered this in Transfiguration?"

Hermione was nodding rapidly, as were several of the other muggle-born and halfblooded students, but most of the purebloods looked as if he'd asked them to recite Homer's _Iliad_ in the original Greek. "Er… to be honest, sir," Ron said sheepishly, "I didn't understand half of what we were supposed to learn in that class."

"We did go over it in sixth year, sir," Hermione added earnestly. "And molecular structure management in fourth."

"How many of you can explain to me what Miss Granger just said?" The same students– muggle-borns and a few half-bloods– raised their hands. Remus just stared. "My word. Most of you really haven't the faintest idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

The rest of the students shook their heads.

The professor was floored, to say the least. Having been left without many career opportunities in the wizarding world after the First War thanks to a certain senior undersecretary, the young werewolf had decided to make the best out of a bad situation and gone to the States on a British student visa. There he'd worked and studied for four long years to get his degree in biology, and had even taught at a muggle secondary school before the American Congress had adopted Madame Umbridge's policies (rather unconstitutionally in Remus's opinion, but that was beside the point). It seemed frankly mad to him that so many of the young witches and wizards before him hadn't the slightest idea of the barest scientific essentials.

"…Well," he said, after a long pause. "We'll have to remedy that."

"Professor?"

The whole class looked over. Draco Malfoy flushed, but didn't lower his hand. Remus nodded calmly. "Yes, Mr. Malfoy?"

"What about- what about werewolves who've turned feral? Are they still human?"

The class broke into whispers as many of the students began to debate one way or another. Even Hermione looked uncertain. Lupin held up a hand, and the room quieted. "I would assume you would be talking about a Mr. Fenrir Greyback and his cohorts?"

Malfoy closed his mouth and nodded.

"It is true, some werewolves do choose to 'turn feral,' as you put it, and retain part of their wolfish characteristics throughout the whole month. During my undercover work for the Order, I met several such individuals." He shook his head. "While there are a few benefits to this decision- the partakers enjoy unusual longevity and strength, and it certainly makes transformations less painful, or so I've heard- the detriments are not at all to be desired."

"Detriments?" Harry interjected curiously.

"A constant desire for human flesh," he elaborated grimly.

Several of the students looked slightly ill.

"In response to your question, yes, they are still human. Turning feral is a progression of the disease, brought on by willfully turning or killing a human during the full moon."

"That would mean it's a relatively young phenomenon, wouldn't it?" Hermione questioned. "After all, Wolfsbane was only invented in the last twenty years…"

"There are certain historical artifacts which have allowed my kind to retain their powers of reason during the full moon," Lupin explained. "Very rare, and as you can imagine, quite valuable, not the sort of things you go bragging about to all your lycanthrope friends. So yes, turning feral, while not unheard of, was until recently quite uncommon."

"So after turning feral, are they trapped like that?" the witch inquired. "Is there any way to go back to how they once were?"

"It is possible to reverse the effects, but to do so requires a great amount of effort, and, from what I have seen, is an incredibly agonizing experience. Not all who do so survive the process." Hermione nodded and leaned back in her seat, apparently satisfied, and Remus looked around the room for the inevitable next question.

He didn't have to wait long; without the warning of a raised hand, a voice burst out with a nervous: "What are they like?" He realized, with as much surprise as the rest of the class, that the question had come from none other than Lavender Brown. She blushed and added, "Sir."

Remus hesitated for a moment, trying to decide how to answer. For the most part, Ferals were nothing but bad news, but one case in particular rendered it impossible for him to make such a broad generalization.

"…As a rule, they are usually to be avoided," he replied at last. "Using a victim to turn feral is… is one of the worst crimes you could inflict on anyone. And most of them do not care whom they hurt or why, during the full moon or any other time of the month. I have known one, and only one, who ever truly regretted her decision, and she fought the bloodlust relentlessly from that day on… but she was the rare exception." He looked at them all very seriously and said, "If you come across a feral werewolf, I have only one piece of advice for you: run and do not look back."

The class fell into a heavy silence. Remus, having had his lesson entirely derailed, wasn't sure how to continue. He looked back to the board and found that the happy chalk letters seemed now almost macabre in the gloomy atmosphere.

It was on this cheerful note that door suddenly opened, and one Professor McGonagall stepped inside. "Sincerest apologies for my interruption, Professor Lupin," she said, glancing around at the students, "But I'm afraid I need you to come with me. You as well, Mr. Malfoy; the rest of you may pack your things."

"What's going on?" asked Parvati Patil, who was nearest the door.

"Never you mind, Miss Patil. Remus, do hurry; I'm afraid it's rather urgent."

Surprised, he nodded and turned to the students. "Very well; you may go. For Wednesday read the rest of the chapter; I also want a brief summary on the differences between Beings and Creatures from all of you, and an attached list of all the Beings listed in your textbook. Class is dismissed."

The students seemed to take as long as possible to ready their bags and trickle out of the classroom, clearly wanting to eavesdrop on whatever secret purpose had caused the Headmistress to interrupt such an interesting class. McGonagall, much to their chagrin, refused to speak so much as a word until the door was firmly shut behind them; she cast a quick muffling charm on the door and turned to the professor and student. "I'm terribly sorry, Remus; I just got a letter in from the Governors. You're on suspension until we can get this whole article mess cleaned up."

"I'm _what?"_ he demanded, aghast. "Professor– _surely_ you don't think–!"

"Of course not, Remus, but it doesn't matter what _I_ think; I made you and the rest of this school a promise that I would take all appropriate measures to find the truth regarding _any_ allegations of suspicious activity. That's a vow I can't break, not even for you."

"Or for me," Draco interjected. "That's why you asked for me, isn't it?"

The headmistress pursed her lips. "Yes, Mr. Malfoy, it is. Allow me to assure you that you have my fullest confidence until proven otherwise, but for the moment you, too, are on suspension."

"Brilliant," he snorted in derision. "Just what I needed."

"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do. If it's any consolation, I've spoken to Dora– er, Auror Lupin. She's promised to get someone up here to do the official questioning by dinnertime. Until then, I'm afraid I'll have to confine you both to your quarters."

Draco looked mutinous, but Remus merely nodded. "I fully understand, Professor. Still, there's the matter of my classes…"

"I will be handling the rest of your classes for today, Remus, never fear. Mr. Malfoy, Professor Slughorn is outside to take you back to the Slytherin common room." Thankfully, the boy went without trouble, although he was still scowling, which Remus found frankly quite understandable. The headmistress herself turned to him with a sigh. "If you will permit this old bird to escort you?"

"Well, I've never had a lady walk me to my door, but I suppose there's a first for everything."

They didn't talk much on the way back to the apartment. Only on the last flight of stairs did McGonagall say, "I truly am sorry, Remus. This was not how I intended to have your first term begin. Of course I wasn't so foolish as to hope everything would change the minute the war ended, but I'd hoped we would have made some progress by now."

"I find it helps to remind myself that whatever people may think, we're really not so different." He smiled ruefully. "Considering the family history, I could have been a hundred times more bigoted and hateful than any of them."

"Even so." She sighed, shook her head. "I can only imagine how disheartening it must be, after all you've done for us…"

"I don't need to be thanked for what I did, Professor. Any decent person would have done the same."

"Hm." They'd reached his door; the headmistress turned to him, green eyes very serious. "He would have been very proud of you, Remus," she said quietly, "as would have your parents, your friends. You ought to take a little more pride in yourself."

For a long moment, he was stunned to silence, filled with an unspeakable gratitude. Apparently understanding his incapacity to reply, McGonagall reached past him and knocked smartly on the door. A moment later, it opened to reveal a red-haired Nymphadora. "Remus!" the auror cried, nearly launching himself on him and latching her arms around his neck. "Oh, Remus, love, I'm so sorry, it's not fair–"

"Dora, it's fine," he said firmly, pulling back just a few inches to look her in her flushed, angry face. "Professor McGonagall and the Board are just trying to ensure the safety of their students. I would do exactly the same if I thought there was any cause for suspicion."

"It's still not fair," she grumbled, pulling him back in again.

Remus laughed despite himself at her unrepentantly childish behavior. He heard Minerva chuckle behind them and add wryly, "I'll leave you two to yourselves."

Dora pulled him inside and closed the door as the headmistress walked away. "Where's Teddy?" Remus questioned, looking around the room.

"He was tired, so I put him down for his nap a little early." She touched his face, clearly concerned. "Love, I know this must be bothering you… you know you can talk to me if you need to, don't you?"

"Dora, believe me: I have no desire whatsoever to talk about it."

Dora, wonderful woman that she was, clearly wasn't satisfied with this explanation, but she let it go. "Well, you're under house arrest," she sighed, leaning against the door. "Thankfully McGonagall said I could stand guard until Arthur sends someone up from Interrogation this afternoon, so she won't have to pull another professor out of classes to keep an eye on you."

"I'm just worried about my classes. Do you know, half my seventh years haven't had the slightest bit of scientific schooling? What _do_ wizard parents teach their children, honestly?"

"Little spells, mostly. How to control their magic, not set the house on fire. Ciphering and grammar." She shrugged. "My dad taught me most of the muggle things, you knew that."

"I'm going to have a word with McGonagall once this whole newspaper business is settled. I'll teach them myself if I have to."

"I know you will, love."

"I mean it. These children are missing a valuable part of their educatio–"

He was cut off by the sudden press of a finger to his lips. "Remus, dear, you know I love you, brains and all," Dora said, with a half-exasperated, half-mischievous sigh, "but Teddy is asleep, you and I've had an actual full night of rest, and both of us are essentially trapped here until dinner tonight. I don't want to hear _one more thing_ about 'valuable education.' You understand?"

Remus was a scientist. He understood.

* * *

"…And that concludes our study of the Anglo-Irish treaty of 498 Anno Domini under King Arthur Pendragon. Class dismissed."

The students breathed a sigh of relief as Professor Bins stood from his chair and drifted absently through wall. "Ugh," Ron groaned, shouldering his bag, "I like McGonagall, honestly, but if I were headmaster I'd chuck this class out altogether."

"Well I thought it was _very_ informative," said Hermione with a sniff. "It's nice to have a timeline for the stories I'm reading…"

"Fine, you can teach it to us later," Harry yawned. _"I'm_ gonna go take a nap."

"Very funny, mate," Ron snorted. "C'mon, we're gonna be late."

"Late for what?"

The two turned to look at him, surprised. "Harry, today is Quidditch tryouts," Ron said, incredulous.

 _"What?_ But tryouts are always on Saturday!"

"They changed it this year. It's been all over the notice boards." Hermione frowned. "Harry, are you feeling alright?"

No, as it happened, he wasn't. He was exhausted from so many nights in a row with little sleep, he had a mountain of homework he'd been too distracted to complete, and the stress of trying to act like nothing was wrong was beginning to wear him thin. But he forced a grin and, in his best imitation of James Potter, replied with a nonchalant, "Yeah, just tired. Merlin, can't believe I forgot; we'd better get going."

He brushed past them, and thus did not see the look of suspicious worry that Ron and Hermione shared, but neither of them said a word, instead hurrying after him down to the pitch.

A small crowd had already gathered on the field, shivering in the relentless downpour. Hermione cast a quick impermeable charm over her friends' cloaks, much to Ron and Harry's gratitude, and then hurried off to the stands where several friends, admirers and significant others were waiting, squinting through the sheets of driving rain. "Alright!" Harry called, forcing his overtired mind to the task. "I know we're short for time and not exactly in the best conditions–" The applicants chuckled, and he was momentarily grateful for the storm, which apparently had warded off most of the first-years. "–So I'll make this as quick as possible. Seeker's position is taken; we need a keeper, three chasers and two beaters, and a backup for each position. Everyone, group into ten and give me a lap around the pitch!"

After an hour, he had found his chasers: Ginny, Adrian Harold (whom he was reluctant to play but felt morally obliged to accept, since Harold was the best on the field after Ginny), and, to everyone's shock, Neville Longbottom, who was surprisingly good on a broom. "I didn't know you played," Harry said, wide-eyed, as the other Gryffindor landed.

Neville shrugged, embarrassed. "Never thought I was good enough to try out before," he admitted. "But yesterday I thought, well, may as well give it a go, right?"

"Yeah." He stuck out a hand, and Neville shook it, grinning. "Welcome to the team."

Chaser tryouts ended without too much fuss. He appointed Dennis Creevy as backup, who gave him a shy, thankful smile and went to sit off on the side, and the rejected students walking away grumbling amongst themselves. Beaters were somewhat easier to find; the two he'd played with in his sixth year hadn't shown up (Ritchie Coote, of course, had graduated, and it seemed Jimmy Peaks was in the hospital wing following a duel-gone-wrong), so he selected two stocky sixth-years by the names of Marcus Higgs and Billy Hobbes. Then came keeper tryouts.

Unlike the previous year, there were four boys and two girls lined up to try for the keeper position. Harry cast a nervous glance to his best friend. He knew Ron was good, but they hadn't exactly had much time to practice in the last year, and of course there was his friend's unfortunate fear of crowds. He glanced up to Hermione, who raised an eyebrow and showed him her wand-free hands. Clearly she wasn't going to give her boyfriend and unfair edge this time around.

But he needn't have worried. Ron saved all five of the goals and even the extra two Harry set to break the tie between him and a rather speedy fourth-year girl. "Well done," he muttered as the other applicants left. "Glad to see you got over that stage fright."

Ron shot him a grin. "Yeah, well, I guess escaping by dragon from a bank robbery puts things into perspective for you."

Harry snickered, and then whistled for the other players. "Alright!" he called, as the now thoroughly soaked students crowded around in the soggy mud. "Since tryouts were late this year we're running short on training time; first game is the sixth of October. Who all is free Saturday mornings at eight?"

After setting twice-weekly practices, Harry dismissed the team, sending them hurrying for the relative warmth and dry of the changing rooms. Hermione was waiting for him and Ron when they got out, her brown hair having turned to a mess of frizzy curls in the rain. "Hi," she said breathlessly, trying her best to smooth her hair as if they hadn't seen it in such a state for the last eight years. "Er, congratulations. That was some really tough competition…"

"Yeah, well…" Ron shrugged his shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck, which was quickly flushing red. "I just did my best."

"Right."

"Right."

The two stared at each other for a long moment, until Harry cleared his throat. They both jumped, Hermione turning as red as Ron. "Dinner?" their friend suggested.

"Right. Yeah," Ron mumbled, as if he'd quite forgotten what food was. "Yeah, that sounds good."

They headed down the corridors towards the great hall, enveloped in an awkward and unusual silence that was quickly beginning to grate on the third party's nerves. It confused him, frankly; if the past few months had been any indication, neither Hermione nor Ron were the sort to allow a new romance to get in the way of their continual conversing and bickering, but tonight it seemed like neither could think of anything to say. The brunette kept glancing up at the redhead nervously, as if intending to do something but not quite able to find the nerve, and the redhead stared straight ahead, growing continuously redder. Harry was just about to lose his patience when Hermione stopped short. "Oh!"

"What's that?" said Ron, startled.

"Oh, I forgot my bag! I have to go back for it."

"I'll get it," Ron offered chivalrously, but the girl shook her head.

"No, you two go on; it won't take me long. Save me a seat in the Hall, won't you?"

"'Course."

"Thanks." She took a few steps behind, before suddenly turning back. Blushing madly, she rushed back up to them and gave the surprised Ron a quick peck on the lips, before hurrying away, looking positively mortified.

Harry burst out laughing. "Was that what that was all about?"

"Shut up," Ron muttered, now roughly the shade of a ripe radish, but as they started walking again, Harry saw him grin.

* * *

"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. I think we can safely assert that you pose no danger to your fellow students. Do you concur, Auror Lupin?"

"Yep. Seems like Rita blowing smoke out her arse, per usual."

The interrogator raised an eyebrow at the auror's unorthodox phrasing, but merely handed the young man a second phial filled with some sort of blue liquid. "That's the veritaserum antidote. Professor McGonagall, any further recommendations from the school representative?"

"None whatsoever," the headmistress said formally, and nodded to the young man in question. "Your suspension is hereby lifted, Mr. Malfoy. You may go."

He gave a short nod and tipped back the potion, downing the lot. A moment later, he felt his sense of self-control return to him, and he rose to his feet, shouldering his schoolbag. "Send in Remus on your way out," the auror added as he headed for the door.

He didn't reply, pulling open the door to the headmistress's office and stepping outside into the darkness of the corridor. The professor looked over, startled, and Draco gave him the barest trace of a nod before continuing on his way, not meeting Lupin's eyes.

Draco knew by his watch that it was nearing dinner, but he didn't feel much like company at the moment. His stomach churned with almost nauseating shame as he walked without any particular destination, footsteps echoing loudly in the empty stone corridors.

The investigation had been… invasive, to say the least. Although the headmistress and Auror Lupin– his cousin, he remembered briefly, not that they'd ever spoken– had ensured he had a fair chance to explain himself, the interrogator had combed over every detail of that night, repeating in every possible format the question of whether Draco had any intentions of furthering Death Eater aims. There had been no opportunity to try to present it in any more flattering light; the truth had been laid cold and clinically bare, each admission more incriminating than the last. _Did you intend to kill Albus Dumbledore?_ Yes. _Would you have carried out the assassination yourself if Professor Snape hadn't arrived at the scene?_ I don't know. _Do you believe muggle-born students have a right to attend this institution?_ No. _Do you intend to take any actions which might prevent their attendance or cause harm to the staff or fellow students?_ No, no, he didn't, he _didn't,_ he just wanted to live out the rest of his life in peace! Couldn't they understand that? Didn't he have that right?

 _Not anymore,_ a voice hissed in his mind, as honest and unbidden as his veritaserum-induced replies. Without warning, a torrent of images filled his mind: Charity Burbage's blank face disappearing into the gullet of that wretched snake. Thorfinn Rowl, twitching and moaning on the floor, pleading for mercy. Granger's screams echoing up the staircase and through the walls of his childhood bedroom, the door to his back, biting hard into his knuckles because she wasn't the first and he knew she wouldn't be the last. Professor Dumbledore, white hair gleaming by the light of the moon, lying broken and still beneath the astronomy tower as he fled the scene of his crime.

 _Not after what you've done._

He was broken from his whirlwind thoughts by the sudden sound of voices from the side-corridor ahead; Draco realized, too late, that he'd been walking absent-mindedly in the direction of the doors to the Quidditch pitch. He glanced left and right; no corridors branched off between him and the next, he would have to go back if he hoped to avoid the newcomers. He turned and quickly began back towards the nearest hall.

"–was worried about that last one; thought for sure Weasley was gonna throw me a bad toss."

"Still bitter 'bout her turning you down two years ago, eh, Harold?"

"'Course not. Dodged a bullet with that one, I did– eh, look who it is!"

Draco cursed internally but didn't slow his pace. "Oy, Malfoy!" the voice rang out, bouncing off the halls. "Taking a little evening stroll, are you?"

"All alone, what a loser," a third voice sniggered. So it was three to one, not good odds. _Don't turn around, don't turn around–_

"Oy! Look at me when I'm talking to you, Death Eater! _Ligabis loris!_

Draco let out a rather undignified yelp as he tripped, falling flat on the floor. He lay there for a moment, gasping; the blow had knocked the wind out of him. He could hear laughing from behind him.

It was a moment ill-spent. Before he could mutter the counter-hex and untie the knot in his shoelaces, he heard Harold shout, _"Expelliarmus!"_ and his wand, which had been knocked from his pocket in the fall, flew out of his reach. He cursed again; after all he'd seen, he couldn't believe he'd been disarmed by a couple of measly students. Coughing and forcing himself to his knees, he tried to turn and get a good look at his attackers, but it was too late: he felt two sets of hands grab him by the shoulders and haul him to his feet.

"Well look at that, boys; we caught ourselves a dark wizard!" It was Adrian Harold all right, from his Quidditch attire probably fresh out of tryouts and, if his grin was anything to go by, riding the high of his success. "We should send a letter into the corps; no way they'd turn us down after this!"

The voices behind him guffawed; Draco struggled to get away and found himself woefully inadequate against the likes of Marcus Higgs and Billy Hobbes. It was clear that they were the brawns to Harold's brains; after all, every bully needs his muscle.

 _Oh, the irony._

"What do you want, Harold?" the Slytherin spat, trying to wrench his arms free again. The newly-minted beaters' grips only tightened.

"Excuse me? I don't think you're really in any position to be taking that tone with me, _Malfoy."_ He waved the hawthorn stave in his face. "So what's a Death Eater doing, skulking about at this time of night? Bit suspicious, don't you think, boys?"

More sniggering. "I wasn't _skulking,"_ Draco snapped. "I just took a walk."

"And why should we believe that?"

"I haven't done anything!"

That was the wrong thing to say. Harold's face flushed bright red. "Haven't _done_ anything?" he demanded furiously. "You've done plenty! I had to leave the bloody country 'cos of you lot! My family was on the run for months!" Draco realized, too late, that Harold was a muggle-born. "So I'm going to ask you one more time: what's a lying, no-good, rotten murderer like you doing creeping around down here while everyone's at dinner, eh? _What are you up to?!"_

"I'm not up to anything, you oblivious cretin!"

He felt pain explode across his jaw before he even realized Harold had hit him. He looked back, shocked, and saw wrath blazing in the other boy's eyes. "Well it's your word against ours, isn't it?" the Gryffindor hissed, and that was when Draco realized he was in trouble.

The assault came in a barrage of mixed hexes, jinxes, and physical blows. Draco felt several of the boils burst as one of the beaters slammed his face against the wall. A numb thought fought its way through the haze of pain. _This is justice. This is what Thorfinn felt._

"You think your blood's purer than ours, eh?!" Someone grabbed his hair; stars spun his eyes as his head cracked against the stone. _Crabbe._ _Professor Burbage._

"You think you're so much _better_ than us? Well? _Do you?!"_

He hit the floor before he realized they'd thrown him down, his blistered hands scraping against the rough stone. He instinctively curled into a ball as the blows rained down from above, covering the back of his head as he'd been taught. _It'll be over soon. They'll grow bored and move on, just don't move, don't move, don't–_

"Fight back, you piece of shite!" Another kick, this time to the side, sent a splinter of white-hot pain up the side of his stomach, and he cried out. "Fight back!"

 _Ollivander. Granger. The man who broke ranks, the poor bastard Greyback turned…_

 _CRACK!_ Blood and pain filled his eyes, his mouth. _Professor Dumbledore._

"How does it feel now, Death Eater? _How does it feel now?!"_

 _"THAT IS ENOUGH!"_

Immediately, the attacks stopped. Draco struggled to push himself up on his burnt hands, coughing; through bleary eyes, he could see a figure standing at the end of the hall, wand drawn. "Let him go!" the figure ordered, and the three hastily stepped back. "What is the meaning of this?"

"We- uh-"

"It was self-defense," Harold lied smoothly. "He attacked us first."

"Oh, did he?" the voice said coldly, and with a sinking feeling, Draco suddenly identified his savior. "Funny, but I don't see any bruises on _you."_

"We- we got lucky-"

"Yes, so lucky you managed to hex him and beat him half to death before he even landed a jinx."

There was a moment's silence in the corridor; Malfoy could imagine the three of them gaping like fish. "H-he was being suspicious!" Harold stammered at last. "He's got no reason to be down here– he was looking for trouble! Go on; ask him yourself!"

"Hm." There was the click of shoes on stone, and then a shadow fell over him. Draco scowled as a head of frizzy brunette hair came into his field of vision. "Is that true?" Granger asked calmly. "Do you have any reason to be down here instead of at dinner?"

After a long silence, he shook his head, a kernel of hatred burning in his chest. It wasn't fair. He'd done nothing, and still, he was going to be punished for it.

"I see." Granger stood, turning to face his attackers. "I've heard enough. Fifty points from Gryffindor."

Draco looked up, startled, as the three let out sharp gasps. _"Fifty points–!"_

"And detention for each of you with Mr. Filch! Friday evening at six!"

"But– Granger, we've got Quidditch on Saturday morning–!"

"Then I suggest you get your homework done early this week! And be glad I don't tell Harry about this! Now go on!"

With much grumbling and griping, the three hurried off down the hall. Once they'd rounded the corner, the Head Girl knelt down again. "Do you need help?" she inquired awkwardly, her assertive demeanor fading away.

"I'm fine," Draco muttered, forcing himself to his feet and biting back a cry of pain. His ankle was definitely twisted.

"You're hurt; I'll call for Madame Pomfrey–"

 _"I said I don't need your help, mudblood!"_

Granger's eyes flew wide. Draco immediately shut his mouth, realizing he'd just insulted the Head Girl. _There goes the House Cup,_ a thought drifted by, surprising him that even still care about something as ultimately worthless as a bloody trophy.

But rather than taking points, the girl merely watched him, the intensity in her brown eyes making him feel like a beetle under a magnifying glass. She raised her hand, and he flinched, but she didn't slap him. Instead, she pushed her right sleeve cuff up to the elbow, then her left. For a moment he was confused, before he saw the white scars carved into her wrist. His stomach churned, and, much to his shame, he dropped his eyes.

"Sit down," the girl said brusquely, and he glanced up again, startled.

"What?"

"Sit down. You need proper medical attention for that ankle; it's not going to help any for you to keep standing on it."

He scoffed. "I think I can manage–"

"Don't be ridiculous, you can't possibly walk on it. Now sit down or I'm taking points."

Grudgingly, he followed orders, sliding down against the wall. Granger drew her wand and murmured an incantation; a moment later, a silvery otter burst from the tip of her wand. _"Lavender Brown,"_ she asserted calmly. The blond behind her groaned, but she ignored it and sent the patronus off with a wave of her wand.

As the otter streaked away in a blur of silver, she glanced down at the Slytherin. "…Your nose is bleeding," she said at last, obviously uncomfortable.

"Well, it's broken," he muttered, grimacing as he tried to stem the flow with his hand. She winced at the blisters but didn't comment, instead opening her bag and drawing a piece of parchment, which she transfigured into a cream-colored kerchief. He accepted it without thanks, leaving the two of them to wait there in increasing discomfort.

Granger jumped as a silvery cloud appeared in front of her. "Lavender!" she exclaimed with obvious relief.

 _"Hermione, is this yours?"_ a voice replied as shadows took shape in the cloud, revealing a scarred young lady with curly blond hair.

"Yes; I just broke up a fight down by the hallway to the pitch. One of them was injured; could you fetch Madame Pomfrey?"

 _"How bad are the injuries?"_

"A twisted ankle seems to be the worst of it."

 _"I can probably take care of it, then; wait there."_

"Will do."

The cloud vanished, and the two were once again left in silence. After about five minutes a figure appeared at the end of the corridor. "Oh my goodness," Brown gasped, hurrying up to them; she was still in her orderly's uniform. "What happened?"

"Bit of a fight," Granger said airily. Draco shot her a surprised look, but when she gave a small shake of her head he realized she was, for whatever reason, protecting his pride. "He got the worst of it."

"I can see that." Brown knelt down beside him, inspecting his ankle and the various hex-marks. "Hm. Thanks, Hermione; I can manage from here."

"Alright." She cast a hesitant glance to the Slytherin, who rolled his eyes. Granger raised a brow and then turned and left, leaving the werewolf to tend to the Slytherin.

The awkwardness only continued to grow; Draco was in no mood for small talk, but it seemed that Brown's anxious chatter only increased the more uncomfortable she felt. Still, she seemed competent; even as he tuned out her ceaseless jabbering, he was somewhat impressed by how the girl he'd always considered to be something of a giggling fool expertly mended his injured limb for the second time that week, before removing a miniscule stone basin from a medical pouch at her hip and enlarging it. "–And this should help with the blisters," she explained, filling the basin with a phial of dittany. "Now let me take a look at your face…"

He let out a relieved sigh as he soaked his hands in the dittany; the blisters on his hands bubbled and then faded away. Lavender fixed his broken nose and administered some sort of potion to the boils which made them dry up and fall off, and then vanished the mess and shrunk the basin again. "I think I might take you up to the infirmary after all," she said thoughtfully, examining his skin. "Just to have Madame Pomfrey give you a once-over for residual spell-damage."

She helped him to his feet, and they descended into a mutual silence as they made their way through the corridors and up the staircases towards the infirmary. After several minutes, Brown spoke.

"It wasn't a fight, was it?"

Draco glanced over, surprised by her insight. "…Not a fair one," he admitted, looking away. They didn't speak again until they reached the infirmary door.

Madame Pomfrey was as bustling and overbearing as always. She gave him a full examination, asked a few questions to which he supplied vague answers, _"hmmed"_ doubtfully, and declared him fit as a fiddle. "Well done," she added to Brown, who had just come out of what appeared to be a linen room, once again dressed in her school uniform. "My, is it that time already? You'd both best be off to dinner."

The Slytherin thanked her quietly, much to the Healer's surprise, and was just about to leave when he heard from behind him, "Sister, did you move my cloak?"

"Hm? No, dear, why?"

"It's missing," said Lavender with a frown, over by what appeared to be a row of coat-hooks, school satchel in hand. "I left it hear with my bag when I started my shift. Did someone take it?"

"Oh dear," said Madame Pomfrey, glancing up with worry. "It can't say, Lavender; I've had the door open all day. Anyone could have…" She trailed off and pursed her lips. "I'm so sorry, my dear."

"…It's alright," the Gryffindor said quietly, looking very much as if it were not. "I'm sure it'll turn up somewhere…"

That was when Draco left, slipping out the door and heading down to the great hall, something strangely thick and nauseating settling in his stomach. He felt angry and ashamed all at once; a few years ago he would have found such a prank as stealing a werewolf's cloak great fun, well-deserved hassling from those she endangered and offended by her very presence. And this to a girl who had tended to _him,_ a criminal, a social pariah, without shrinking away. Draco realized with belated surprise that he had neither pulled away from _her;_ he hadn't even thought to be disgusted by her– or, come to think of it, Professor Lupin. He, who had encountered the most depraved and debauched of their kind, was finding it increasingly difficult to see the beast beneath the knitted jumpers and silk bows.

He realized with a start that he was walking inside the doors of the Great Hall and shook himself from his thoughts, going to take his regular seat at the Slytherin table. Vince had already gorged himself on the plates of roasted chicken and was starting in on a bowl of strawberry sorbet. Blaise seemed to be deep in discussion with Gladwyn and Duggard about some assignment – which one, Draco couldn't bring himself to care. He saw out of the corner of his eyes as Brown entered through the double oak doors and went to sit at the Gryffindor table with the Patil twins.

"Hey," Blaise said suddenly, nodding to the entrance. Draco glanced over; Professor Lupin and his wife were entering with the headmistress, the man looking exhausted but rather content, hand-in-hand with his wife. "Look at him," the Slytherin sneered. "Bet you he got off scott-free. Filthy scum."

Gladwyn, Duggard and even Vince sniggered. Draco swallowed and didn't speak, spearing a few glazed carrots with his fork.

"How many kiddies d'you think he bit out there, eh?"

"Half a dozen, I'd bet!" Gladwyn said eagerly, anxious to contribute to the conversation. Blaise snorted.

"Filthy animals. Should be locked up."

Draco slammed his fork down on the table. The other four looked at him, startled. "What's your problem?" Blaise demanded.

"Nothing," he muttered, reaching for his spoon. "Nothing."

Across the hall, Hermione paused halfway through her bowl of fresh fruit as Lavender Brown began to look for the rarest piece of chicken. "How is he?" she said in an undertone, much to the confusion of her friends.

Lavender glanced up. "He'll be fine. You were right; a twisted ankle was the worst of it."

"He?" Ron demanded, glancing between the two. "He who?"

His girlfriend brushed this off with a vague, "Oh, I had to break up a fight; that's why I was late. One of them was injured."

"Really? What happened?"

She was saved from having to answer by a loud _crack_ that erupted through the hall, stalling conversation. Every head turned to look as one of the school house-elves, cringing and bat-ears tucked low, crept over to the Gryffindor table with what appeared to be a red blanket in hand, stopping just behind Lavender.

"Missus, Kippy was told to deliver this to you," the elf said in a quivering voice, knees knocking together in fear. "Kippy is very sorry, Missus, Kippy had no choice-!"

"Oh, don't be sorry!" Lavender reassured her, standing up from the bench. The elf flinched. "What is it?"

With trembling hands, the elf offered up the cloth. Every eye in the hall was craning for a better view. As Lavender unfolded it, Harry, who was among those nearest, realized that it was not a blanket, but rather the shredded remains a blood-red cloak– Lavender's cloak, if the fur lining was anything to go by, but he thought he could distinctly remember it being a sort of raspberry pink color. Baffled, he looked to Ron and Hermione. Although the latter seemed similarly confused, the pureblood's eyes had gone wide, mouth open in a little _o_ of recognition.

His eyes darted back as Lavender let out a little noise in the back of her throat, like a dog's whimper. Her gold eyes filled with tears, breaths coming quicker and quicker. Back at the staff table, one Remus Lupin rose to his feet.

Without warning, Lavender Brown dropped the ruined cloak and dashed off, bursting into sobs as she ran straight out the double oak doors.

The hall burst into an uproar: muggle-born students turned to purebloods, demanding an explanation; purebloods were looking increasingly uncomfortable and hunkering down in their seats. "What was that?" Harry demanded, looking back at Ron. "Why did she start crying?" But Ron had gone a dark shade of red and didn't answer. The Patil twins leapt to their feet in feet in unison beside him, hurrying off after their friend. "Ron!"

"I-It's a scary story," the pureblood answered hoarsely, looking deeply ashamed of himself. "Y'know, like – like the kind you tell on Hallowe'en, and stuff."

"A story?" Hermione questioned.

"Yeah, you know– ' _The Three Little Squibs,'_ ' _The Boy who cried Werewolf,'_ that sort of thing. But _'Little Red-Cloak'_ was the worst. George told it to me when I was eight; I wet the bed for weeks… mum nearly hexed him for that one…"

"Oh no," Hermione gasped, realization dawning on her. "You don't mean– the cloak–"

"Poor Lavender," Ginny whispered.

 _"What's going on?"_ Harry demanded, frustrated to once again be the last to know about something wizarding-related.

Hermione turned to him with somber eyes. _"Little Red Riding Hood,_ Harry," she said softly, biting her lip.

A moment later it clicked; his mouth fell open and he looked up to Lupin, but the man seemed to be having a very hasty and intense discussion with Professor McGonagall, who nodded rapidly, rising to her feet. Lupin appeared to thank her, and then ran down the steps and out the doors after the other werewolf. "C'mon, mate," Ron said, standing up. "C'mon, let's go–"

But that was when the second most shocking thing of the night happened. For while they had been talking, another conversation had been underway across the hall. As he watched Lavender flee the hall in tears, one Draco Malfoy heard the voices behind him burst into snickers. He turned to see Gladwyn and Duggard high-five each other under the table, and Blaise Zabini looking supremely proud of himself. "Did you do that?" Draco demanded, shocked.

Zabini, unfortunately, utterly failed to notice the growing anger in his friend's eyes. "Wasn't very hard," he boasted smugly. "The little beast should take better care of her things. Hopefully she'll take the hint and leave." Rage was bubbling in Draco's stomach, his face going redder and redder as the others laughed. "Who knows!" Blaise chortled. "If we're lucky, she might even off herself!"

And that was when, in plain view of the whole Great Hall, Draco Malfoy yanked Blaise Zabini to his feet and belted him one across the face.

* * *

The night sky above the astronomy tower was navy and sprinkled with stars, laced with the remains of the evening's stormy clouds. The stonework was still damp from the rain, but Lavender paid it little mind; she could no longer bring herself to care about the state of her clothes or even her makeup, which was running down her face in steady black streams as she sobbed into her knees. So distraught was she that she didn't even realize she was no longer alone until she heard the newcomer clear his throat.

Hiccupping in surprise, she looked up. Professor Lupin looked back without a word. After a moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bar of chocolate, holding it out as if as a peace offering.

With a sigh, Lavender nodded, wiping her eyes. The teacher walked over to sit down beside her and unwrapped the bar, breaking it and handing half to her. In wordless unison they each ate a square.

As the professor snapped off another, Lavender swallowed. "…How did you know I'd be up here?" she managed thickly.

To her surprise, Lupin laughed. It was a very sad laugh, one that made her feel like crying all over again. "I don't know," the older werewolf admitted, shrugging his shoulders. "I just had a hunch." He glanced over and gave her a wry smile. "It's the best place to see the moon."

She sniffled and nodded, wiping her eyes again. She was sure she must look a mess. "Your friends are looking for you," the professor added. "They were terribly worried when you ran out."

"They should be more scared of finding me," she mumbled bitterly. "Who knows what I'll do? I'm a vicious monster, you know."

The professor sighed and didn't reply. For a while they sat in silence, until Lavender spoke up.

"That story," she said, voice barely more than a whisper. "When… when he… he started talking about the story. Right before he…"

Her voice broke, and she turned away. When her shoulders began to shake with silent sobs, the professor, uncertain of proper protocol in such a situation, rested a gentle hand on her shoulder and waited for her to collect herself. "H-how could they do that?" Lavender wept. "How could they think that after _h-him,_ I'd ever– ever–"

 _"Shh._ I know. It's alright." She dissolved again, and neither spoke again for several minutes until she got ahold of herself. "I told you before, Miss Brown," Lupin said quietly, as Lavender mopped at her eyes, "If you ever needed to talk, you have a listening ear."

"A-about anything?"

"About anything."

She seemed to be working up her nerve. At last, she managed to say, "Professor– on those nights–" Her breath caught, and he knew what she was trying to ask. "On those nights, do you–"

"I do," he interrupted gently, knowing how difficult it would be to finish. "We all do, Lavender; the cravings are a part of the disease. But," he added, when her expression crumbled, "they will grow easier to fight with time. We can't help what the disease makes us feel, but we can help what we do about it."

The girl looked away and stared at the ground for a long moment, so long he thought she wouldn't speak again. Then, he caught just the faintest breath of a whisper:

 _"…What if they're right?"_

"Ah." He looked up to the moon, the stars. "You mean, what if we really are just vicious monsters?"

Lavender nodded, looking utterly miserable. He sighed, thinking about how to respond. When at last it came to him, he couldn't help but smile sadly.

"…When I was eight years old," he began at last, shifting his position against the wall, "I had my first encounter with a boggart." Lavender looked over, surprised; clearly, this was not what she had been expecting. "My father handled them, you see, for the Ministry. Kept them in the basement between transportations. Well, our basement wasn't just used for storage…"

He trailed off. She got the message. "Anyhow, I was curious. I wasn't usually allowed down there except for on full moons, and I'd certainly never seen a boggart before, for all I'd heard about them from my father. One day I got it into my head that I wanted to see one for myself. I thought, 'What is there to be scared of? After all, _I'm_ a big bad werewolf, that boggart should be afraid of _me!'"_ Lavender giggled. "At the time, the only 'greatest fear' I thought I had was the full moon itself, and I knew that boggarts didn't have the same powers as the real thing, so it wasn't like I was going to transform right there in the middle of the afternoon. So, I stole the key, unlocked the door, went down into the basement and opened the first trunk I saw.

"As you can imagine, that was a mistake. As I told you, I _thought_ my greatest fear was the full moon… I was wrong. There was another fear, a deeper one, that I'd forgotten. You can imagine my shock when a full-grown, snarling werewolf jumped out of the trunk and backed me into a corner. By the time my father got down the stairs I was in a fit of screaming hysterics, terrified by a carbon-copy of the transformed Fenrir Greyback."

"He was the one who…?" Lavender whispered. Lupin nodded.

"Of course, I didn't know that at the time– I just recognized it as the werewolf that had attacked me as a boy. When my father had finally managed to calm me down, I asked him if that was what I looked like, when I transformed. And do you know what he said?"

"What?"

"He grew misty-eyed, shook his head and said more forcefully than I'd ever heard him, _'No,_ Remus, of course not. You're _nothing_ like that monster: not now, not ever.'"

Lavender didn't speak.

"At the time I thought it was because I was smaller, just a pup. It wasn't until I was older that I finally understood. Lavender." She glanced up at him, and he looked back, hazel eyes very grave. "We are not monsters," he said firmly. "I know that sometimes, that is going to sound terribly hollow, but it's the truth. You are not a monster and you will never _be_ a monster, not unless you choose it. And no one– not me, not Fenrir Greyback, not the people on the streets or the articles you read in the paper or the stories you hear– _no one_ can make that decision for you, but _you._ Do you understand me?"

After a pause, she let out a shuddering breath and nodded. "Thank you, Professor."

"Of course." He stood and offered her a hand, which Lavender gratefully accepted. "Now let's get you out of the chill, hm?"

They walked together down the staircase to the warm hallway below, where Padma and Parvati Patil were waiting. "Oh, Lavender!" Parvati exclaimed, rushing forward to hug her friend. "We were so worried–"

"I'm alright," the blonde said with a watery smile. "Thanks for looking for me…"

"Of course we did!" Padma reassured her. "Don't worry about the cloak, Lav; we'll send it home to Mum, she'll make it good as new."

"Oh, Lavender, your makeup!" Parvati exclaimed, causing the werewolf to blush. "Let's get you cleaned up, come on. Thank you for finding her, Professor; we can take it from here."

He chuckled and nodded, watching Lavender's face grew more and more cheerful as her friends fussed over her clothes and her hair. Soon enough they were ushering her away in the direction of the nearest bathroom, and Remus, feeling his job was done, turned and headed back towards the Great Hall.

He didn't make it two corridors before he came face-to-face with Dora and McGonagall. "Did you find her?" the headmistress demanded.

"I did. She has her friends tending to her now."

McGonagall sighed. "Good."

The trio fell into silence. Remus felt his stomach knot. He knew what was coming.

"…Remus," Dora said at last. "The rain's stopped."

"Yes."

She opened her mouth, clearly hesitant, and he cut her off.

"It's time."

* * *

The dim light of the quarter-moon gave just the faintest outline over the edges of the small party gathered at the edge of the Dark Forest, but for Remus Lupin, it was more than enough.

For anyone else, the Forest would have been eerie in the daytime, let alone at night. A cold, stiff wind blew through the branches and rattled the dead leaves, the smell of autumn rot and decay permeating the air. Deep shadows swallowed up the trees and hid the scurrying creatures from their view.

But Remus was not anyone else. Quite the opposite, he had spent several months living in forests just like this one, and he instinctively knew this place as a second home, his territory. Someone had invaded his territory, and if they thought they were going to get away with it, they were sadly mistaken.

He could see the small team of aurors glancing at each other out of the corners of their eyes, clearly unnerved. Their discomfort only grew as he slipped off his shoes and socks, setting them to the side. "What are you doing?" one of them demanded, his voice jumping. He must have been new.

"I always hunt barefoot," he replied evenly, and had to force himself not to roll his eyes when the man made a vague choking noise. _"Deer,_ Officer Payne."

"Right," the young man said hastily. "Right, of course. Obviously." Remus was pretty sure he heard Dora cough to hide her snort of laughter.

"Haywood, where did you find the bones?" she broke in, clearly not impressed by the young officer's unease.

"This way, Chief," said a redheaded man with a considerably calmer demeanor.

"Lead on."

They walked into the forest as one mass, wands drawn. Remus breathed in the air, eyes flicking left and right as he scanned for danger. Somewhere a thestral gave a screeching cry, and a wild owl took flight, but other than that there was no sound. Wet fallen leaves damped their footstep, and the whole world, to an ordinary man, would have seemed far too quiet.

But of course, Remus was not an ordinary man, and for that reason it was painfully obvious to him when he heard Officer Payne mumble to Officer Kopp, "I still don't understand why _he_ has to come with…"

"Werewolves are nocturnal by nature," Remus replied for him, glancing back; everyone save Dora started to see that his eyes had gone a luminescent yellow. "I can see things in the darkness that you couldn't hope to catch by daylight."

"Besides," Dora added sharply, "We need him to identify the scent on the bones."

Remus shot her a frown. "You make it sound like I'm some sort of a bloodhound."

His wife winked, and he rolled his eyes again. "How far off are we, Haywood?"

"Not far. We'll just go 'round the barrier this way…"

Within a few minutes they came to a stop, standing in the middle of a relatively grassless place among the rippling roots of the ancient trees. "Watch your step," he called back, carefully navigating the unsteady ground to where Haywood indicated a small pile of bones, niched between the roots. "It was a lucky find," the auror added, as Remus crouched down low to the ground. "I could just as easily have never seen it."

"Hm. They probably didn't expect you to, or they would have buried it." He picked up one of the bones, examining it carefully. "Definitely rabbit. Three– no, four adults, some kits as well. Uncooked, too."

"They ate them raw?" said Payne shakily.

"Mm."

"Can you get a scent off them, Remus?" Dora asked.

The werewolf scooped up a handful of the larger bones, noting the sharp bite-marks in the hard outer shell. Lifting it to his nose, he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.

 _–Shafts of bright moonlight split the room, gold eyes gleaming out of the darkness, and he screamed as a monstrous wolf leapt from the shadows–_

 _–Everything in him was screaming at him to cower, to beg for mercy like the wretched dog he was, because he was weak, weak, a feeble little runt, a victim–_

 _–"I WILL END YOU, LUPIN! I WILL RIP OUT YOUR THROAT AND CRUSH YOUR BONES! AND WHEN I'M DONE WITH YOU, I'LL GO AFTER YOUR PRECIOUS BITCH, TOO!"–_

"Remus? Remus!"

It was Dora's voice that pulled him out of the torrent of memories, and he gasped, dropping the bones. He could hear whispers behind him, but he didn't care, couldn't care. He had thought he was safe, that his _family_ was safe…

It took him a moment to steady himself. When at last he opened his eyes, he found Dora looking at him with concern. _"It's him,"_ he croaked, and then cleared his throat. "It's him," he continued, more formally. "Greyback."

Several of the aurors gasped. Dora swallowed. "And the others?"

Although reluctant to subject himself to the sense-memories again, he again lowered his head to the ground. Two more images filled his mind: one a brutal man with blazing red hair, the other a one-eyed, laughing figure, the word "mutt" accompanied by a sneer on his lips. "His betas, Brute and Cyclops. I don't know their real names."

"Is that all of them?"

"I- I think so-" He realized, belatedly, that he was shaking, and blood rushed to his cheeks. Dora's hand settled on his shoulder.

"That's alright," she reassured, "that's good for now, sweetheart." She nodded to the others, who took the hint and disapparated back to HQ.

Hand-in-hand, the pair walked back to the castle. When they reached the gate doors, Remus drew away. "Dora, I- I think I need to be alone for a while," he murmured. His heart was still pounding in his ears.

His wife pursed her lips, but nodded. "Okay." She touched his scarred cheek and kissed his forehead. "But if you need me, you know I'm here."

The man managed a nod for her sake before ambling off down the corridor, with no apparent direction in mind. Tonks sighed, watching him go, and then turned and headed for their apartment.

* * *

It was very late that night (or, rather, very early the next morning) that something roused Nymphadora Tonks from her slumber. She rolled over with a grown, feeling for the form of her husband, and, upon finding the bed still empty, opened her eyes.

She immediately shielded them, squinting in the brilliant light of the silvery-blue wolf patronus waiting at her bedside. "Remus?" she questioned, sitting up. The wolf didn't answer, and she got the feeling that it wasn't going to anytime soon. So, yawning, she stood and shrugged on her pink dressing gown, following the wolf out of the apartment.

The corridors were utterly deserted; at one point she saw the Fat Friar drift across a hallway of them, murmuring to himself in Latin, but nobody else crossed their paths. Eventually the wolf stopped before the door she'd been least likely to suspect: the trophy room.

The patronus vanished as she pushed the door open to find her husband sitting on the ground, barefoot and bathed in candlelight. He didn't look over even as she shut the door, but she knew he'd recognized her by the way his position shifted. She sat down beside him cross-legged, looking at what appeared to be a case of mementos from all the Hufflepuff Quidditch championships. And waited.

At long last, Remus drew a deep breath. "…When my father finally told me who it was that turned me," he began quietly, "I was furious with him. I stormed out of the house before he even had a chance to explain… refused to speak to him for months." He paused. "When finally Professor McGonagall talked some sense into me and got me to make up with him, I told him I wanted the full story. No details excluded. That was the first time I ever learned there was more of a connection between us than a mere confrontation in a courtroom."

"Because of Melion," Dora said softly.

"Among other reasons, yes." He stood and walked closer to the case, pressing his hands to the glass. Dora followed, tracing his gaze to a picture on the second shelf of the case. It was a black-and-white photograph, colored sepia by the dim light, featuring eleven students in Quidditch garb, a badger emblazoned on their chests. A young boy, the seeker, was cheering and holding up the Quidditch cup, but her eyes were drawn to the first beater's position, her own. Here, it was occupied by young man of about fourteen or fifteen on the left, with wavy brown hair and a wide grin. As she watched, he pumped his fist into the air and let out a silent whoop, and she smiled. At the bottom of the picture were the words, _Inter-House Quidditch Champions, 1927-1928._

"Justus Lloyd was born on the 6th of January, 1909, in Llanbedrog, Wales," Remus recited beside her. "He was a Hufflepuff, and a beater, and apparently had a talent for transfiguration. He was my grandfather's best friend." He paused. "And, in the fall of 1928, he was attacked and killed by a werewolf, or so they claimed. His body was never found."

"He was one of Greyback's victims?"

"No," said Remus softly. "He is Greyback."

Dora stared. "What?"

"It's a common enough practice. His parents told the world he was dead, the Ministry registered it as such, and Justus was so disfigured by the attack that nobody would believe him when he told them the truth. Those who did told him to leave and never come back… my grandfather was among them." Remus shook his head. "He always said he should have killed Justus when he had the chance."

"Did you ever meet him?"

"My grandfather? Just once. My parents went to great lengths to make sure he wouldn't realize what I was. I even had to wear colored contacts." He smiled grimly. "We somehow managed to fool the last great werewolf hunter in Britain. I'll never understand it."

"I'm so sorry."

"Me?" He laughed without humor. "You feel sorry for me? I've had a good life, Dora; I had parents who loved me, friends who stood up for me, an actual education! A wife, a child. No, Dora, if you're going to feel sorry for anyone, feel sorry for that boy in the picture." The werewolf shook his head, bitter and angry. "The world hated him, so now he hates the world. And he's raised many like us to do the same."

"Why would they follow him? After what he's done to them?"

"He is a gifted leader," her husband replied with a shrug. "A man of two great virtues, and two only… justice and loyalty, or his twisted perversions of them." He paced away, turning his back to her. "He defends and protects his pack from any threat… to their life, or their way of life, there is no distinction to him."

"You broke the pack."

"I showed them another way."

"You did the right thing, Remus."

"Yes. And now he intends to make my family pay for it." His hands closed into shaking fists.

They elapsed into silence. At last, Dora let out a low sigh and walked over to him, resting a hand on her shoulder. The man turned to her, hazel eyes haunted.

"Dora, if it comes to it," he whispered hoarsely, "if he corners you, you give it to him. Don't hesitate."

"And what happens then?" she demanded. "Even if he does just let me go, which we both know isn't exactly in his character, how could I do that to my country?"

"Your life is worth more than that ring."

"Is it worth more than a war?"

Remus sighed again, knowing that he wasn't going to convince her, and kissed her forehead, breathing in her sweet scent. When he drew back, Dora reached up to a chain around her neck and drew it out from under her shirt. In her palm she cupped the small golden band at the end, the diamond on one end and the ruby on the other gleaming in the flickering candlelight. "So much trouble for such a small token," she whispered.

"If only it were just that."

He looked so wretched that Dora could do nothing more than follow her instincts. She pulled him into a tight embrace, felt the shaking hands on her shoulders. "It's going to be okay," she murmured, rubbing his back. "You married a big strong auror, remember? I can take care of myself."

"You shouldn't have to," he whispered.

"Hey." She drew away, cupping his face in her hands. "If I can help stop even one more person from having to go through what you do, you know I'd do it in a heartbeat. It's my job, remember?"

"I know. I just wish I hadn't dragged you into this."

"Well, it's a family affair. And now–" She kissed him on the lips, and he smiled despite himself. "–I'm family," she finished firmly. "Now how's about we get you upstairs, hm? Get some sleep?"

"That may be a good idea."

"No kidding." She tugged on his arm. "C'mon, before Teddy's old enough to sneak out of his own window."

He chuckled and followed her out of the room, shutting the door behind him. The candles flared and went out, shrouding the image of a young, laughing boy in darkness.

* * *

 **A/N: Aaaand another long wait for a long chapter! Not my favorite chapter to write, but I hope you liked it! Please do leave a comment; they really make my day! Also, if you'd like you can check out my side-stories that accompany this one, _Faux Paw_ and _Honesty._ Pax et bonum!**


	13. Chapter 13: A Change of View

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do I profit from this work produced here.

 **Warnings: Torture; PTSD; lots of psuedo-science. Oh, and for those of you who mind, a few religious references.**

 **A/N: I'm not a scientist or even a biology major, so despite doing a lot of research, there are certain aspects of the science lesson bit that are probably wrong (such as the part about inoculations; I doubt that one vaccine could work for two diseases). Please excuse any mistakes as me trying to make magic work with science.**

 **Here's the chapter; hope you enjoy!**

* * *

 _"Crucio!"_

 _The figure on the ground before him screamed, back arching in agony. He watched for a moment, satisfaction burning like ice in his chest, before he flicked his wand upwards. The man lay gasping in the dirt, twitching._

 _"Had enough?" he asked coldly, adjusting his glasses, gripping his wand tightly in his fingers._

 _"P-please- I'm begging you–"_

 _"Oh, so you're begging, are you?" He took a step closer; the man flinched. "Tell me, did they beg, too?"_

 _"Please–"_

 _"When you tortured them, all those innocent people, did they beg you to stop?" His wand twitched in his fingers; the man was trembling. "What about when you killed them, hm? Did they beg you then?"_

 _"I d-don't- I-"_

 _"Answer me! DID- THEY- BEG?!"_

 _The man sobbed. The auror had had enough of this. "Fine," he said coolly, "Don't tell me. You know, they say when you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes, so who knows?" He leveled his wand forward, and the man froze. "Maybe it will jog your memory."_

 _"No- please, no-!"_

 _"Avada-!"_

 _"Harry?"_

 _He glanced over. Ron looked back, eyes wide. "Harry, what in Merlin's name is going on?!"_

 _"Ron, I told you, I'll meet you back at base." His voice was terse, glare fixed once more on the cringing Death Eater on the ground, who was crawling towards Ron._

 _"S-sir, please, don't let him, sir, I'll go quietly, please-!" He flicked his wand; the man cried out, faltering in his pathetic pursuit._

 _The redhead was frantic. "Oh, Merlin– Harry, don't do this!" He stepped forward, but his friend bellowed:_

 _"NO, RON! THEY DESERVE IT! FOR WHAT THEY DID, THEY DESERVE IT!"_

 _"Harry, don't-!"_

 _"AVADA KEDAVRA!"_

* * *

With a flash of green, he awoke.

For several seconds Harry sat there, gasping, disoriented. Slowly, his mind began to sift through the facts: he was in bed. Specifically, he was in his four-poster bed at school. He'd been asleep… dreaming.

As the rush of adrenaline leeched out of him, shame filled its place, churning his stomach. _Could_ he do that? Could he really take such pleasure in torturing someone? In _killing_ them? It seemed unimaginable, and yet, here he was, picturing it all in awful, lurid detail. When had he gotten here, Harry had to wonder? Had the war snapped something inside him, broken that little piece of goodness he'd once had? Or had it been _him–_ the unseen presence, whispering into his thoughts, feeding off his own life force for sixteen years?

The unanswerable questions whirled around in his head like a brewing storm, spinning faster and faster until the restless energy forced him to move. Harry swept the curtains of his four-poster aside (there was a slight _pop_ as the muffling charms broke) and kicked away his sheets, letting the shock of the cold stone floor bring him even more fully to wakefulness. One thought was clear: he couldn't stay here, trapped in the tiny dormitory with only his all-too-disturbing thoughts for company. He had to get out, to move, to walk around. Opening his trunk and shoving aside unused socks and a bag of Honeydukes candy, he found what he was looking for: his Cloak.

Throwing it over his head and grabbing his wand and glasses off the side-table, he fled the dormitory. The common room below him was empty and dimly lit by the dying coals in the fire. Breathing a sigh of relief, the teenager reached behind him and shut the door as quietly as he could.

But, apparently, not quietly enough, for in the armchair by the fire an overlooked figure started and turned around, face invisible in the shadows but red hair clearly indicated by the light of the dying fire. Harry bit back a groan; he couldn't believe he hadn't realized Ron wasn't in bed. "Harry?" the redhead whispered in startling likeness to his dream-self, frowning sightlessly at the stairwell. "Harry, is that you?"

The bespectacled young wizard was left in quite a conundrum. He didn't want to reveal himself, but neither could he leave or go back into the dorm without confirming his presence. He settled for holding his breath and waiting for Ron to think he'd misheard and, with all luck, fall back asleep, but his hopes were in vain: his friend only waved for him to come down, yawning. "It's just me, mate; you can take off the Cloak. I can see your feet poking out of the bottom."

Harry looked down; it was true, he hadn't pulled the cloak down far enough in the front. Inwardly cursing his stupidity, he pulled off the cloak and reluctantly made his way down the stairs. As he did so, Ron tucked several sheaves of parchment under one of his textbooks. His friend glanced to it and asked, in desperation to avoid the elephant in the room, "Homework?"

"Yeah. Got a little behind; don't tell 'Mione." Harry managed a nervous chuckle, and Ron eyed him coolly. "Fancied a midnight walk, did you?"

"Er– yeah."

Ron nodded as if he really believed it, and Harry had half a hope that maybe he would get away from this without any awkward questions, before his best friend said lightly, "Don't suppose this has anything to do with the silencing charms around your bed?"

The other wizard's eyes went wide. "You know about that?"

"Course I do, mate. You've snored for seven years; you think I'm going to believe you just randomly lost your most irritable habit overnight?"

"Oh." He swallowed. "Uh… yeah, I guess…"

"Yeah." Ron rolled his shoulders, straightening up. "S-s- _so,"_ he yawned, covering his mouth. "Wanna talk about it?"

Harry looked away. "Not particularly."

"You know we're worried about you, right? Me and Hermione?" He made the mistake of glancing over; Ron's blue eyes were serious, glinting in the light from the dying coals. "You've been out of sorts, mate."

"What're you talking about? I'm fine."

"Hippogriff shit," his friend said bluntly. "You forgot about Quidditch tryouts on Monday, Harry. _Quidditch tryouts._ You haven't been yourself and you know it." Harry didn't respond, and Ron leaned forward. "C'mon, mate, what's going on? What's with the nightmares? Your scar hurting you at all?" His friend shook his head. "So it's just you then, huh?"

"Yeah. This time, it's just me." Harry sighed heavily, realizing he wasn't going to get out of this. "Ron… what if I'm not a good person?"

Ron stared. _"That's_ what you're so worked up about?"

"I'm serious!" he said defensively.

"Harry. You're more than a good person, you're a bloody _hero."_

"That doesn't mean anything, though!"

"Sure it does-"

"No, it _doesn't."_ He groaned, closing his eyes. How could he possibly explain this to Ron? Ron, who was so ordinary and loyal and not _mental?_ "Ron… some days, I think I'm losing it, really losing it. It's- it's fine, when I'm awake, but when I go to sleep…" He shook his head. "I see things. Things I don't like."

"Like… me? Or Hermione, or Gin? Y'know– dead, or something."

He shook his head, feeling sick. He couldn't speak anymore; the lump in his throat had grown too big.

"You, then?"

A nod.

"What're you doing? In the dreams, I mean."

At this, he let out a choked laugh. "…I'm an auror," he said thickly, a bitter grin filling his face. "Getting a bit too… um… serious, about my work."

Ron didn't reply, his face hidden in the shadows. Harry swallowed and looked away. "Told you I was mental," he muttered miserably.

"I don't think so."

He glanced back, startled. "You don't?"

Ron shook his head. "I think it's normal to be angry. I mean, I'm still angry at Rookwood, and he's dead."

"You don't have nightmares about killing people, though, do you?" he pointed out.

"No. Doesn't mean I'm not plenty furious, though. Some days, I wish Rookwood were still alive just so I could do him in myself."

"That's different," Harry argued. "He killed your brother."

"And how many people did you lose?" Ron started to count off on his fingers. "Your folks. Sirius. Dumbledore. Cedric. My brother. Collin. Mad-Eye-"

 _"I don't need a litany, I get it!"_ Ron stopped. Harry felt awful; he hadn't meant to snap. He took a deep breath and tried to get his tone back to normal. "Ron, it wasn't just me who lost them; they were important to all of us."

"That's exactly my point," Ron agreed seriously. "We've all gone through a lot, every one of us. And we're all suffering the effects of it. Why should you be any different?"

"I just…"

"Wanted to be noble and good and all that, I get it. You're not the only one." Ron leaned forward so his face was split in half by the red light; it was dead serious. "Harry, you can't blame yourself for being angry; Merlin, I'd think you'd gone mental if you _weren't_ angry! And war makes everyone come out a little barmy, doesn't it? You can't live through something like that and not be changed, turn out a little messed up inside. It's how it is." He reached across the distance separating them and set a warm, solid hand on his friend's shoulder. "You've been through more than anyone should ever have to. But we're going to make it, mate. We are; I promise."

Harry let out a low breath at that. "You promise?"

"'Course I do."

"And… you're not… y'know, disturbed by all this? What I told you, I mean."

"Oh, I'm plenty disturbed. I'm disturbed by the whole last few years," said the redhead with a wry grin. "But mate, you're not the only one who feels like he's about to take a short walk off a tall cliff; some days, I think I'm going loony, trying to do a charms essay when six months ago I was camping in a tent in the middle of some wood, hunting down bits of Voldemort's soul with the Chosen One and all that. But no, I'm not scared of you. I'd be a lot more scared if you _weren't_ worried about this; the fact that you are just proves you really are a good person, you know?"

 _That makes sense,_ Harry thought with surprise. _Maybe I'm not going mental, after all. Or at least, not too mental._

But still, there was one last thing on his chest. "Ron?" Harry said hesitantly, as his friend drew away.

"Yeah?"

"I… I'm scared. Really scared." He took a deep breath. "It's just… he was in my head, you know? What if… what if it's too late, for me to be normal? What if something's gone wrong with me?"

There was a long silence, painfully so. He wondered if Ron would ever answer.

"…You still seem pretty normal to me," his friend said at last, and he realized that Ron had only been thinking it over so as to be truthful. "I'll be honest, I don't know much about that sort of stuff. But–" he looked over, his expression firm, "–no matter what, you'll always be my best mate. We'll cross that bridge if we come to it."

 _We._ Something about the pronoun seemed to lift a great burden off his shoulders; Ron had said _we,_ as if whatever fresh horror the morning might bring, he, Harry, would never have to face it alone. No matter what, he'd always have his best friend.

And if all else failed, he could live with that.

"C'mon," Ron said, standing up and shoving his books and papers together. "I reckon I've done enough of this for the night. You still wanna walk around?"

"No, I–" He realized, surprised, that he was in fact growing sleepy again. "I'm sort of tired, actually."

"You think _you're_ tired; it's two in the bloody morning. We've got class in six hours," his friend grumbled, hefting up his textbooks.

"It's your own fault for putting it off so late."

"You sound like Hermione."

"You know what she'd say: _do it today or later you'll–_ ow!"

Ron snickered all the way up the stairs as Harry rubbed the back of his head, grinning despite himself. He felt so much lighter, impossibly so, as if just the mere confession had made facing his fears that much more manageable. As Ron shoved his books into his bag and Harry clambered into bed, the former looked over. "Oy, Harry?"

"Mm?"

"I think you should talk to someone about this, y'know? Maybe McGonagall, or Professor Lupin."

Harry looked over, startled. "Why him?"

"Well he's your career counselor, isn't he? Besides-" Ron yawned, climbing into bed, "-besides, I think he might be able to help you more than I can."

"I dunno," the other wizard said with a small smile, taking off his glasses. "You've helped quite a lot."

Ron gave a tired grin and lay down. "Don't worry about it. G'night, Harry."

"Night, Ron."

They didn't speak again after that, but then, they didn't need to. As he drifted off, Harry thought again, with the full ease of relief, that it was indeed very good to have friends.

* * *

It was raining again.

Remus loved the rain. Really, he did. He loved the way it looked. He loved the way it sounded. He even loved the way it smelled and tasted, full of earth and sky and the promise that no one was going to try to convince him it was a beautiful day and, therefore, he should outside be doing something athletic, instead of curling up in front of a roaring fire with a pot of chamomile-mint and his new favorite book.

But today, not even the rain could help his mood. Remus felt sick, positively sick, right down to his stomach, which was currently twisting itself into a ship-worthy knot. His fingers drummed in pattern on the stone sill as he watched raindrops race each other down the glass. He shifted his briefcase in his other hand, the one that said _Professor R. J. Lupin_ in peeling letters, and wondered if he would have any need of it once his morning's obligation was done.

The professor jumped slightly as the door to his right opened, and out came a green-eyed, bespectacled old witch, dressed in deep plum robes and straightening her hat. She was just turning to lock her door when she caught sight of the man and stopped, surprised. "Remus! Goodness, but it's rather early; is anything the matter?"

"I– yes. Professor, I need to talk to you."

Much to his surprise, McGonagall only sighed. "I was hoping we could put this off until lunch at least. Very well, come in; I'll put the kettle on."

"Really, you needn't–"

"Nonsense; if you think this is going to be a short discussion, Remus Lupin, you've got another think coming." She opened the door again and disappeared inside, leaving the younger professor to follow after.

Remus had only seen Minerva McGonagall's personal chambers a few times over the years, and they hadn't much changed since his last visit in the spring of '93. The apartment was smaller than his but of roughly the same layout; the kitchen and sitting room were in the same positions, with doors opposite the entrance leading to what he presumed was a bedroom and lavatory. It was the personal touches that so distinctly spoke of the professor he'd long admired: a tartan quilt lay neatly folded over the back of the armchair which replaced the sofa; the room had acquired several more bookshelves, all of them bursting with important tomes and what appeared to be notes of her own studies; and an old, beautifully carved writing desk had been pushed up against the wall beneath the arched window, the candles lighting automatically as the pair entered.

Most poignantly of the effects were the photographs placed with care above the mantle. On one side were two pictures, identical to his own copies of the First and Second Order, old and new friends waving out at him. On the other lay one of a tall, dark-haired witch, head held high, beside a broad-shouldered, grinning man in preacher's robes. Three children stood before them, two curly-haired boys (Remus was painfully reminded of the Weasely twins) and an older, black-haired girl with clever eyes. To the right of this was an oval-framed muggle photograph of the same preacher, now sitting very straight and serious in British military uniform. But in the very center frame was Remus's favorite picture of all: that of a younger Minvera McGonagall in a white dress and veil, laughing and lightly smacking the grinning wizard at her side as he pulled her close and kissed her on the cheek.

"Take a seat," McGonagall called from the kitchen. Remus obliged, sitting down at the small dining table. Outside the window, the world was beginning to turn from deep blue to a pale gray, that dreary, drumming, sheet-like rain that only Scotland could produce on such a regular basis streaming down the windows and turning the whole world into a grainy black-and-white film.

"Here." He looked up as a cup and saucer in floral print were set down in front of him. Without a word, Minerva took the opposite seat and imbibed a prim sip. Remus did the same, and nearly choked; he'd forgotten how strong she brewed her tea.

"Allow me to make a guess," the witch began, lowering the cup to the saucer. "You're here to give me your arguments on why you should resign."

"Er–"

"I thought as much. Well, Remus, I have fully considered the matter, and my answer is no."

He blinked. "You… can't stop me from leaving…"

"You're worried about the students," she asserted calmly. "You think that by leaving the school, Fenrir Greyback will follow you and the risk to them will be averted."

Remus stared, startled by her honesty. "Well, yes. Professor, if it's a decision between the safety of my students and fulfilling some selfish wish to continue teaching, the choice is clear."

"Hogwarts is one of the best-defended magical fortresses in Great Britain; there is no way for Greyback or any other unwelcome visitor to enter this castle.

"He's done it before."

"We were ill-prepared before. We had no containment plan if a threat actually entered the castle; that is no longer the case." The headmistress's green eyes were serious. "Remus, no one knows Greyback like you do. We cannot predict what he intends for this school, for our students. Twice in as many years he managed to find a way inside; last May he turned an innocent girl. I need you to help me ensure that no more of our students fall victim to his curse."

"My staying here wouldn't help that. You, of all people, should understand that I cannot put these students at further risk because of me!"

Her face softened. "Believe me, Remus," she said gently, "I do understand."

Remus studied her, and then relented with a sigh. "I know you do," he murmured. "I'm just tired of seeing others become casualties for our battles."

McGonagall smiled sadly, and then her expression grew troubled again. "If Greyback's personal grudge against you were the only factor involved, I would be helping you pack this moment. But you and I both know that it is not. If he is after the Ring, then he will target your family and anyone else he knows you hold dear, including these children. Your departure, far from helping, would only be further proof to him that they are effective blackmail and remove our best defense against him from the scene."

He paused, surprised. It hadn't occurred to him that Greyback might still target the students even if he left the school. "Remus, I need you to listen to me," said McGonagall grimly. "If Greyback is indeed scouting out the castle, your leaving won't protect our students; what you _can_ do is remain here and protect them, and yourself."

The rain was pounding its tattoo against the windows, the thunder was rolling across the earth, and somewhere in the recesses of the apartment a clock was chiming out half-six, but there in that room, the air felt dead and cold and silent. In that stillness, both felt the weight of her words as they fell: "And you know as well as I what will happen if the Ring falls back into his hands."

Remus swallowed. Yes, he did know. For thirty-seven years, Fenrir Greyback had dominated the packs of Great Britain, spreading agony and terror in his wake. No werewolf had been able to resist him, each falling to the overwhelming nature of the submission instinct and cowering in his shadow, many too weak to refuse his call, many more too afraid to stand in his way. Remus had managed to bring that reign to an end, but he knew how quickly the Ring could change hands, and allegiances. No, he couldn't afford to take that risk, and staying at Hogwarts was the best way to ensure it didn't happen.

He sighed through his nose and leaned back. "…You're sure the students will be safe if I stay?"

"Absolutely. We've increased the security measures quite a bit; even if he did get inside, the new charms on the stonework would stop him from wreaking any further damage." She reached across the table and took his weathered hand in her knotted own. "Fenrir Greyback is not getting into this castle on my watch," she said firmly, and Remus relaxed as he realized he believed her.

"Alright," he said with a sigh, "Alright, Professor. But when the parents get word of this, they won't be happy."

"I'm well aware."

"And it's not as if we can warn them about the Ring, unless you'd like to draw every power-hungry werewolf in the country right to your front doors."

"Yes, I would quite like to avoid that."

"Then how do you intend to explain keeping me on?"

McGonagall shrugged. "With the truth. I will tell them that although we have no evidence that he's returned since, we felt it prudent to have you assist us in 'werewolf-proofing' the castle, so to speak."

He snorted. "Just plant aconite at every entrance. You'll wake up one morning to find him passed out at your doorstep." The pair shared a brief moment of grim humor, and then he grew serious again. "If there is any further evidence," Remus vowed, "a scratch on a tree, a footprint in the mud, I'm leaving."

"I would expect nothing less of you. But if by God's grace it doesn't come to that, will you help me protect my students?"

"With everything I have," he vowed, and the headmistress rewarded him with a rare smile.

* * *

The great hall was full when Draco Malfoy arrived the next morning, scanning the tables nervously. After the little incident Monday evening, he'd been unofficially excommunicated from his own house, unwelcome in the company of any of his old friends. His gray eyes fell on Blaise, Greg, Gladwyn and Duggard, who were laughing at some joke Blaise had told. After a moment or two they caught sight of him; immediately, their faces went stony, each turning back to the group. Draco sighed to himself and made his way to the end of the table, sitting down alone.

As the hall filled with students and the happy chatter of morning breakfast, a screeching cry rang throughout the hall, heralding the pack of owls before they swooped in through the open window. The seventh-years all looked up in hopeful expectation as letters and rolled scrolls rained down on the table; acceptance letters were due to arrive throughout the week. At Gryffindor table, Seamus Finnigan, whose owl was the first in, opened a letter sealed with a red wax shield, and, after reading the first few sentences, let out a whooping cheer. "It's from the bishop!" he crowed, waving the letter in Dean Thomas's face. "He's sending me to school; I'm going to be a priest!"

"Bloody good for you; now get that out of my face before I give you a reason for the last rites," Dean grumped, trying to read his own letter around Seamus's. His face brightened as he said, "Hey, it's from the Auror Office! They've taken me on!"

"I didn't know you were going into the corps, Seamus," said Ginny with surprise, reaching up to catch a falling letter out of midair.

"No, for doing forensic art! They liked my work; they're calling me in for pensieve-sketch auditions–"

But Ginny was no longer paying attention; instead she was reading eagerly her own letter from the Daily Prophet, her smile widening with every word. "You're in?" Harry guessed, grinning with pride at his fiancé.

"'Course she is," said Ron, ruffling her hair. "My baby sister's a genius– although why you'd want to write for that rag, I'll never know–"

Ginny stuck her tongue out at him and then turned to Hermione, was staring at her unopened letter, apparently petrified. "Hermione?" she said with concern. The brunette witch didn't answer. "Hermione, aren't you going to open it?"

 _"Get the mandrakes,"_ Harry muttered to Ron, who snorted and shook his girlfriend's shoulder. "Oy, 'Mione, that letter's not going to open itself."

"I can't," she said suddenly, setting it down on the table. "I can't, Ron, you do it."

"Alright, if you want me to–"

"No! Wait, never mind, I want to–" She quickly picked the letter back up, and then froze again.

"Hermione," said Ron with exasperation, "staring at it's not going to make it go away. Just open it and get it over with!"

"Right. Right…" She took a deep breath and broke the purple seal over the front, slipping out the typewritten letter. _"Dear Ms. Granger, we at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures are pleased to say–_ oh! Oh, Ron, they accepted me! I can't believe it, they accepted me!"

"And here you were all worried that– _mmf!"_

No one knew quite what he'd intended to say next, for Hermione had spontaneously thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him in delight. Several people wolf-whistled as the pair broke apart, both very red in the face. "Er- pass the marmalade, Harry?" Hermione managed, as Ron stared wide-eyed at nothing in particular.

It seemed that all of their friends had been accepted into their preferred places of employment; the Patil twins had both been taken on by Madame Malkin's as apprentice tailors, Luna Lovegood would be pursuing further education in magizoology, and Neville had received a handwritten card from Professor Sprout herself welcoming him to the staff as her new teaching assistant the following year. Ron and Harry were the only two at the table not to receive a letter, and Hermione was just inquiring why as one Nymphadora Lupin sidled up behind them, hair colored a bright red and bouncing a baby Teddy on her hip.

"Hey," she chirped, causing the two boys to turn. "Having a good morning?"

"Not bad," replied Ron, "Yourself?"

"Mm, well, I'm always happy when I've got good news to deliver."

Ron blinked, surprised, and then his face lit up. "You mean–"

"Welcome aboard," said Tonks with a grin, extending her free hand. Ron laughed and shook it. "And you!" She pointed at Harry with faux ferocity, "Get your application in already! I don't like hexing teenagers but I'll do it if I have to!"

"Er–"

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding! But seriously, though, I need something _in paper_ by the end of the week. First lesson in auror training: be punctual!" She winked and tickled her baby, who chortled, and then said, "Best get some food in this one. See you lot later."

"Have a good day, Tonks," said Hermione kindly. The chief auror grinned and waved, before heading back towards her husband at the staff table.

It didn't take two seconds for Hermione to round on her friend. "You haven't gone in for your careers meeting?!" she demanded.

"I–"

"Lay off him, Hermione," Ron interjected calmly, reaching for a piece of bacon, "he's going in later today. Right?" He glanced towards the other wizard, and Harry caught his meaning.

"Right," he said, and meant it. "Can I have some of that bacon?"

As their conversation drifted to lighter matters, two final owls drifted into the hall, feathers ruffled with rain. The pair swooped over the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables, dropped their letters and soared away out the window again. Draco Malfoy picked up the heavy cream envelope from the table, drawing a deep breath. The front was sealed with green wax, stamped with an emblem of an overlapped wand and bone in the shape of a Latin cross. _This is it._ His future lay in his hands.

With trembling fingers, he broke the seal and retrieved the letter within. The sounds of the hall around him faded away as he read:

 _Mr. Draco Malfoy,_

 _We, the Sisters of St. Mungo and layperson affiliates, are pleased to accept your application for a paid internship at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Internships begin on January the 11_ _th_ _, 1999, at 6:00 p.m. Starting pay is three galleons per hour. Please come in trainee healer orderly robes (white or pale green) and closed-toe shoes imbued with non-slip charms. Orderly sporrans will be provided._

 _Yours in Christ,_

 _Mother Maria Faustina O'Keefe_

 _-Superior General of the Sisters of St. Mungo;_

 _-President of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries_

He stared at the letter, and then read it again. As he read it for the third time, a smile began to spread across his face. His life wasn't over. He could still make something of himself, be more than the embittered war criminal, the traitor, the murderer. Someone, somewhere, still believed in him.

The Slytherin looked to the staff table, seeking out the eyes of his mentor. After a moment Lupin caught his gaze; he raised his eyebrows, and Draco gave a nod. The professor's face split into a grin.

Yes, Draco thought to himself, returning the smile with a proud one of his own, someone _did_ believe in him. And if it was the last thing he ever did, he would make sure he deserved it.

Draco Malfoy was going to be a healer.

* * *

Lupin was already in the classroom by the time the students began to pour in, still talking with great fervor as they took their seats in the long benches facing the blackboard. Most of them were enthusiastically discussing where they were accepted and what they hoped their internships would be like; a few, including Millicent Bulstrode and a sniffling Hufflepuff girl, were being comforted by their friends, but the overall atmosphere in the room was an excited one. Remus smiled as he watched them; it was good, he thought to himself, for the young people to have something to be excited over. _Goodness knows they've had enough misery to last a lifetime._

"Alright, everyone, settle down!" he called, and the chatter died to a few muffled whispers. "Thank you. Today is going to be our last lecture-based lesson for a while; next week we'll start on the more practical matters." The class fell silent as the teacher waved his wand at the windows; the shutters closed with a series of clicks, and, with another wave, the candles in the chandelier dimmed.

"Now," said Professor Lupin, pacing around the room, "as the events of the last year have made it clear that even senior Ministry officials lack a basic scientific understanding that muggle primary students would consider appalling, I decided it may do you all good to undergo a quick crash-course in genetics."

The class began to murmur at this; the muggle-born and half-blooded students all looked somewhat interested; the purebloods, in general, confused. Ron raised his hand, and Professor Lupin nodded. "Ronald?"

"Er- what exactly does that mean, Sir?"

There were a few giggles, and Lupin grinned as Ron flushed red. "No need to be embarrassed, Mr. Weasely; I'm sure more than a few of your classmates are equally confused. I presume you're all aware of what science is?"

A Slytherin boy raised his hand. "Er- that stuff the muggles do to get by without magic?"

"Yes, and no. That is the general wizarding understanding of science; in truth, the natural sciences are a means of studying the physical world around us. For instance, muggles, having studied electricity, found a way to harness it using magnets and thereby achieved many of the wonders wizarding kind takes for granted. Science has allowed them to develop medicines, means of communication, and even send men to the moon – all without the use of magic.

"The practice of studying the natural world, at least in the west," Lupin continued, "began in large part with the Ancient Greek and Egyptian mathematicians and philosophers. This knowledge was then transferred into the Roman adaption of culture, and, following the fall of Rome, was preserved throughout the middle ages in monasteries and churches here in Europe, while other studies developed in the near and far east. Science has largely aided our kind as well; it was through working hand-in-hand with muggle doctors that our own healers developed the art of potion-brewing during the twelfth century. In recent times, muggles have even managed to map out the design of cellular structures, not to mention- and here is where our lesson begins- human genetics."

He waved his wand; tiny sparks appeared in the air and combined to form pictures. Hermione let out a little gasp as she saw the familiar butterfly-like figures of the human chromosome; other students were staring at it with obvious confusion.

"All sentient creatures, from humans to house-elves, developed from a common ancestor," Lupin continued; with another wave of his wand, a sort of family tree appeared in glowing white. "Who exactly this common ancestor was is lost to antiquity; however, thanks to this technique of genetic mapping, we can identify how closely different sentient races are linked. For example, modern humans and Veela are very closely related, whereas centaurs and house-elves are quite a ways apart. Another thing of note," he added, "Is that, as you will see, wizards and muggles alike both fall under the category of human beings." It was true; beneath the category _Modern_ _Humans_ were the words, _Wizards; Muggles._

"So what's the difference between them, then?" a voice called from the back. "Why can we do magic and they can't?"

Lupin nodded. "Very good question, Mr. Shafiq; take a look here." He tapped his wand to one of the pairs of chromosomes; it expanded as the others disappeared. "Within every human cell- that is, the small, living parts that make us up- there are twenty-three pairs of chromosomes. Those are the little things that look like long butterflies, you see? Now, on every chromosome there is a certain code, so to speak, that tells the creature what it ought to be. Each cell has two copies of the same chromosome– one from its mother, and one from its father."

The butterfly-shaped objects expanded again, until they were looking at something vaguely similar to a double-curved staircase, with steps labeled by different letters. "This code in particular is what determines whether someone will be a wizard or a muggle," Lupin said, pointing to the letters. "Now you see how here–" He waved his wand so a nearly identical "staircase" appeared, "–This code differs from the other?"

It was true; one strand had a step labeled _A-T,_ while the other was labeled _C-G._ All the other steps were identical. "That one small change in the code- two little letters- can determine whether someone can perform magic. That's it. That's all."

The class seemed genuinely stunned- all save Hermione, who was scribbling down notes as quickly as possible. "Now," said Lupin, waving his wand; the double-staircase was replaced by the butterfly-like objects again. "In the process of reproduction, when one half of the code from each parent is copied and passed on to the offspring-" The sparks followed his command, illustrating as he spoke, "-sometimes the code-copiers will make mistakes- putting in the wrong letters, so to speak. These 'mutations,' as they are called, can cause the right sequence for magical capacity to appear or disappear, without cause."

"Then that's why there are muggle-borns!" someone cried out, and everyone turned to look. It was a Slytherin girl from Ginny's class, Hestia Carrow. "Why, they didn't steal magic at all!"

"Of course we didn't!" Hermione said hotly, turning in her chair. "Steal magic- what a ridiculous idea! As if the ability to control matter and energy could be _stolen!"_

"Miss Granger, if you please," said Lupin calmly. Hermione flushed and quieted. "That is quite correct, Miss Carrow; the magical talent- as Miss Granger so enlightened us, the power to manipulate matter and energy at will- is an inborn trait. In the same way that a mutation can cause magical power to arise, another mutation can cause it to disappear. That is how two magical parents can have an entirely un-magical child."

"What about half-bloods, then?" Dean asked curiously.

"A helpful form of evolutionary magic causes that the chromosome copied from a wizarding parent will always be the one containing the code for magic," Lupin explained. "Otherwise, there would be a great many more non-magical children born to half-blood marriages. The code for magic is dominant over the code for non-magic, so children of half-bloods, or quarter-bloods and so on, will always have their wizarding parents' talent. Is this making sense to everyone?"

It seemed as if about half the class was following; the other half was somewhat confused. Lupin sighed slightly and re-explained the lesson again; when he was finished, they appeared a little more comprehensive of the material. From the back, he saw a hand go up in the darkness. "Yes?"

"I don't see werewolves or vampires anywhere on your chart, Professor," a voice said; after a moment, he realized it was Draco Malfoy. "Where do they- er, you- fit in? And how are there half-giants or half-Veela, and so on?"

He seemed genuinely curious, and the professor smiled. "Excellent questions, Mr. Malfoy. Allow me to address your second concern first."

He waved his wand; the sparks disappeared. "Referring back to our chart, the closer two species are, the more easily they will be able to mate and produce offspring. This applies to all living things, by the way, not just sentient creatures. For instances, humans and Veela-" He gestured to the chart; the line marked _Veela_ branched off relatively close to that marked _Human,_ with only the lines for _Elf_ and _Huldra_ separating them, "are so similar that they can have children- and, moreover, grandchildren. Strictly speaking, by scientific classification they are not actually separate species, but subspecies. On the other hand, humans and giants are far enough apart that half-giants will unfortunately not be able to produce children of their own. Any further past that, and cross-species progeny are utterly impossible."

"Poor Hagrid," Ron whispered under his breath. "That's a bit of a blow, isn't it? Especially with him looking to marry Madame Maxime…"

"As to your first question," Lupin continued, "werewolves and vampires are actually not a separate species at all. This is where the lesson gets a bit more complicated." He waved his wand; a new spark-image appeared, that of a roundish blob with smaller objects inside. Harry, Hermione and other children who'd attended muggle school let out another _"Ah!"_ of recognition; the all-wizarding children looked stumped.

"This," Professor Lupin instructed, "Is a healthy human cell. Inside that small circle in the center-" He pointed to a smaller, purple-colored sphere inside the larger one, "Is where the chromosomes are held.

"Now, strictly speaking, lycanthropy and vampirism are not really viruses, but retroviruses. I'm not going to go into the details of the two-" Everyone save Hermione looked relieved at this; she let out a little sigh of disappointment, "-but the essential idea is that a retrovirus is a very small object which invades a cell and forces a new copy of information into the inner circle. The cell is forced to replicate the new information into the code and create more virus agents." A new series of sparks formed the image of a small, geometrically-shaped object, which invaded the sphere as he spoke.

"Do you actually need to be in the moonlight to change, then?" Parvati inquired curiously.

Lupin shook his head. "The transformation is triggered by the timing and the presence of the full moon's light in the area around me, not necessarily actually being physically touched by the rays. Hiding in a basement doesn't change anything- believe me, I'd be in far worse straights if it did," he added, with dry humor in his tone. "Lycanthropy as a disease causes the victim to retain more magic than is healthy- in fact, the amount contained in the victim's body will reach toxic amounts if not expelled. Oh, yes, an overdose of magic can kill you," he said, as they exchanged nervous looks. "Magic is a sort of energy; too much of it can be fatal, just as fatal as being struck by lightening. Hence, every thirty days when the moon is full, a werewolf forcibly undergoes a form of human transfiguration to expel the excess magic."

Two or three hands shot up, and he added, "And before anyone asks, no, I can't just apparate to the other side of the planet and wait it out. A number of my kind have tried avoiding the moon's cycle in the past by popping around to different regions; it was all well and good until the full moon was over and the surplus magical energy hadn't been burnt up."

"What happened to them?" asked one of the Ravenclaws curiously.

"I'd rather not describe it," Lupin replied grimly. "Suffice it to say that magic set to an astronomical alarm-clock shouldn't be tampered with. Yes, Mr. Finnigan?"

Seamus put his hand down. "Sir, why can the disease only be transferred on the full moon?"

"Ah, well, strictly speaking that's not true; while the disease can be spread at any point, it is usually dormant except on the full moon. In its dormant stage, the virus is very weak, and the human immune system- that part of you that fights off colds and fevers and the like- has no trouble stamping it out before it can infect a new host cell. Once activated, however, the virus becomes vicious; it can invade and spread at an incredible rate." He shrugged. "I suppose theoretically, if I kissed my wife just minutes before the full moon struck, she could be turned; otherwise, the disease poses no harm during the other twenty-nine days of the month."

There was a pause, and then, in the back of the class, Lupin saw Lavender Brown's hand rise, trembling, into the air. "Yes, Miss Brown?" he said gently.

"If- if the disease is dormant except on the full moon," Lavender said, voice quavering a little, "Then how…?"

Lupin bit his lip, and then said, very softly, "It is important that you all note I said _usually._ Certain… recent cases… have led healers to believe that some feral werewolves can pass the activated disease on even in their normal form… the body will attempt to neutralize the virus as quickly as possible, but if enough cells are successfully invaded and retain the bad copy of information, it will spread like wildfire to the rest of the body, and the victim will transform upon the next full moon." Lavender's eyes had dropped as everyone glanced at her, and Lupin hurried to move on to the next question. "Yes, Ronald?"

Ron's brow was furrowed. "But that doesn't make any sense; my brother was attacked, too. Shouldn't he be infected, then?"

Lupin considered this, and then shrugged. "Theoretically, yes- except, if I recall correctly, Billius is a curse-breaker for Gringotts?" Ron nodded. "It's very possible that he was immunized against a similar enough magical disease due to the requirements of his work; if that were the case, he might have fought off the virus before it could do him any real harm." He looked around to the class and said, "You should note that this is still all very much in the realm of guesswork, as not many werewolves eagerly present themselves to St. Mungo's for medical research. We hate being poked and prodded just as much as the next wizard," he said, with a wry half-chuckle. "Hermione?"

"Professor, if the disease is due to little more than a change in the genetic code," said Hermione, lowering her hand with a confused frown, "couldn't Healers just… vanish it away? Eliminate the unwanted nucleotides?"

"Unwanted what?" Ron whispered loudly, and was promptly shushed.

"It's been tried," Lupin replied fairly. "The only trouble is, it would require going through every single cell in the human body, of which there are trillions- not a very time-effective cure. One Healer experimented with vanishing every code at once; accidentally vanished the poor bloke he was working on. Believe me, if it were feasible, wizards would be swooping in on every muggle hospital in Great Britain to cure similar muggle diseases and the like; unfortunately, it's simply not possible."

"So you- you are _human,_ then?" a tentative Ravenclaw girl questioned.

He inclined his head. "In the strictest sense of the word, yes, Miss Everill, I am entirely human. Well, perhaps human and a little something extra." He looked around and found to his surprise that once again, Draco Malfoy had raised his hand. "Mr. Malfoy?"

"Sir, where did you– that is, how do you know this is all true?" the young man asked, frowning deeply. "I mean, people just _randomly_ being born with magic, it sounds a bit fantastical, doesn't it? How can you be sure it's not just a mudbl- _muggle-born_ lie?"

Ronald Weasely stood up violently before Remus could respond, drawing his wand. "You're asking for it, Malfoy!"

"Getting brave now, aren't we, Weasley?"

"Death Eater!"

"Blood traitor!"

 _BANG!_

Both boys jumped and turned; Professor Lupin had fired off a loud shot. "That is quite enough!" he said disapprovingly. "Sit down, both of you; ten points from Gryffindor and Slytherin."

In unison the pair flushed red and took their seats, looking equally disgruntled. Remus looked around the room to find that the rest of the students– muggle-borns, "blood traitors" and the children of supremacists alike– looked supremely uncomfortable. The werewolf took a deep breath to compose himself, wondering how to cut the tension in the room.

And that was when inspiration struck.

"Well, I certainly don't expect any of you to take my word for it," he said calmly, "So why don't I show you? Mr. Malfoy and… let me see, Miss Granger, if I could request your assistance in a little demonstration?"

The class perked up with interest. Surprised, both students came to the front of the room. Lupin retrieved a clean sheet of paper from his desk and then turned to the front row. "Harry, if I might borrow your glasses?"

"Er- sure, I guess." He removed his spectacles and handed them to the professor, who conjured a quick _lumos_ spell behind the parchment, causing the room to be colored a pale yellow. He then retrieved a few matchsticks for lighting the candles from his desk, which he transfigured into three needles.

"Now if you will, each of you prick your finger, just enough to draw blood." The head girl did so without hesitation, and the Slytherin, not wanting to be one-upped, did the same. "Press it to the parchment." They obliged, and Lupin followed suit. "Now, Mr. Malfoy, if you will do the honors?"

He handed Draco the spectacles, who eyed them with confusion. "Now what?"

"Tap them and say, _magnificare milia."_

The student did so, and then let out a shout of surprise when the image in the glass grew to view microscopic levels. "Now look at the blood," Lupin encouraged. "Can you tell whose is whose?"

There was a pause as the class held its breath. At last, the young man said, in a very strange tone, "…I can't. They all look the same… just as you said."

"If we were able to see closer, you would find distinctions in the genes," the professor allowed, "hair color, eye color, gender… on mine you would find an extra strand that, on certain evenings, allows me to grow fur and quite a magnificent a tail." Several students giggled. "Some people can do magic, some cannot– just like some have a special talent for music or mathematics. But we are far more alike than we first realize. Whatever our capabilities, whatever our appearances, whatever our advantages or disadvantages… each of us, in short, is human."

Lupin fell silent a moment, allowing the words to sink in, and then noticed that several of the students in the back rows were craning for a look at the glasses. He chuckled. "Alright, everyone come forward– one at a time, one at a time…"

But one student was no longer listening. Draco Malfoy was staring, frozen, at none other than Hermione Granger, the blood pounding in his ears.

* * *

 _…His father's discomfort continued to grow with every minute they spent in St. Mungo's, and the feeling was beginning to wear off on his son. He watched his mother gently brush against Lucius's hand with her fingers; it was an unspoken fact in the Malfoy household that hospital visits were to be avoided whenever possible, but his father's cousin, Mr. Sailor, had recently recovered from dragon pox and the entire family was expected to make a show._

 _As made to leave the reception desk, the small family was nearly run over by another trio: two brunette parents with their sobbing son, whose hands seemed to have turned into paws. "We just don't know what to do!" the mother exclaimed tearfully. "W-we're not wizards, we don't know how to make him put himself right again!"_

 _"Don't you worry about it, ma'am; it's just accidental self-transfiguration, happens all the time with youngsters," the welcome witch said soothingly. "Spell damage, fourth floor."_

 _As the distraught parents rushed past them with their son in the direction of the stairs, Draco heard his father snort and mutter under his breath, "Fitting recompense, turning their son into a mudblood."_

 _"A m- mud…blood?" Draco said with a frown, sounding out the word. "What's a mudblood, father?"_

 _Lucius and Narcissa glanced around, waiting for the other visitors to pass, and then drew him to the side, lowering their voices. "A mudblood, Draco, is a muggle who has stolen a wizard's magic," his father explained, a grim look crossing his features. "They are weak but dangerous, muggle thieves who are trying to invade our world and take our power for themselves."_

 _"B-but that boy– he was so little!"_

 _"It's not always they who do it, Draco, darling," his mother explained with a sigh. "Their parents take the magic from a wizard child and give it to their own."_

 _His grey eyes flew wide. "C-can they steal my magic?!"_

 _His parents were quick to reassure him otherwise. "No, Draco, no!" Narcissa crooned, dropping to her knees to pull him into a hug. "Only weak wizards can lose their magic, ones who have thinned it with muggle blood. But your magic is strong, very strong! No one is going to steal it, we promise."_

 _"But that is why you must be very careful, son," Lucius said firmly. "You mustn't let yourself be contaminated by them, or by anyone who has bred outside our kind. Your mother and I were careful; that was how we had you."_

 _"Lucius, he's just a boy…" Narcissa murmured, but her husband shook his head._

 _"It's better he learn now, rather than later." He knelt down in front of his son and settled a hand on his shoulder, looking him in the eyes. "You are very young, Draco, but someday you will have to carry on the Malfoy family name. When that day comes, you will have to ensure that the bloodline remains pure and strong. Do you understand me?"_

 _Although he didn't really, Draco nodded dutifully. "Yes, father."_

 _"Good. Good." He stood with a sigh, glancing about; the hallway was still empty, and Draco had the feeling that he had just been told a very important secret. "Well," said Lucius, trying to lighten the mood, "Let's go see Mr. Sailor, shall we?"_

 _As they made their way down the hall, the boy silently vowed that, like his father before him, he would keep his family strong– and no mudblood was ever going to take that away…_

* * *

His heartbeat thudded in his throat, ignorant to the other students pushing past him, ignorant to anything except the vice-grip squeezing tighter and tighter around his chest. It couldn't be true. Everything he'd ever learned, the warnings he'd received, the dangers he'd been taught to guard against– was his whole life a lie? No, it couldn't be true! He– he _couldn't_ have fought that hard for a mere falsehood, he couldn't have become a Death Eater for the sake of a lie! He had fought for the pureblood cause, tortured and been tortured for it, nearly died for it!

His father had _murdered_ for it.

The vice suddenly seized hard around his heart; he felt as if he couldn't breathe. He saw the faces of Professor Burbage and the Headmaster swim before his eyes, heard Granger screaming and the terrified muggles begging for mercy.

He couldn't stay here. He had to get out.

Dazedly, almost dizzily, he slipped away from the classroom. The world seemed to be spinning; his blood was singing in his ears. He stumbled and broke into a run, dashing down the hall, faster and faster until he burst into the boy's lavatory and, collapsing into the first stall, was violently sick into the basin.

* * *

 **A/N: So originally this whole "day" was going to be one chapter, but I finished writing it last night and it was** _ **thirty-two pages long!**_ **So I decided to cut it in half; the second part will be up in a couple of days. Please leave a review, and I'll see you all soon! Pax et bonum!**


	14. Chapter 14: Scarred, Not Broken

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do I profit from this work produced here.

 **IMPORTANT: If you didn't get the chance to read Chapter 13, which I posted two days ago, please read that one first; this chapter will make more sense that way.**

 **Warnings: Blood; arguing; cursing; references to Remus being attacked as a child; and married people,** _ **ah,**_ **living out their vocation (last section). Oh, and for those of you who mind it, a few religious references.**

 **A/N: So I was intending on posting this tomorrow, but because I'm going on vacation today I wasn't sure what the wifi conditions would be like. Enjoy the early chapter!**

* * *

The rain was pelting down in gray sheets across the Scottish highland hills, and Draco Malfoy grimaced as he fastened the clasps on his cloak. He was in a particularly foul mood; after a few second-years had found him in the bathroom– weak, pale, and clearly having just lost his breakfast to school plumbing and any monstrous creatures that happened to inhabit it– he'd been forced by Madame Pomfrey to stay in the infirmary all morning and most of the afternoon, despite his insistences that he'd merely eaten something that disagreed with him.

Thankfully, his enforced bed-rest had been mercifully short and uninterrupted, save for a few snickering fourth-years who'd heard the rumor that he "couldn't stand the sight of his own blood." (Draco wanted to tell them that he'd seen more blood exit a human body at once than they'd probably ever see in their entire lifetimes, but he figured this wouldn't help bolster his failing popularity). He'd been released just in time for his last class, and now, ignoring the pointed looks and sneers from the other students, he threw the hood over his head and muttered a water-repelling charm on the warm material before tromping out the side door, resolutely _not_ thinking about the troublesome revelation of the morning's defense lesson.

The grounds were soggy with mud and trampled grass, particularly the student-made path leading down to the groundskeeper's hut where the Care of Magical Creatures lessons were held. Moods driven sullen by the rain, the group of black-clad seventh years looked nothing so much as a flock of surly wet crows, save for the one spot of ridiculous raspberry-pink that was Lavender Brown.

Professor Hagrid was waiting for them at the end of the path, next to a suspiciously closed pen. "Afternoon!" he called cheerfully to the students as they approached the pen nervously. "Gather 'round, now– 'lo there Ginny, Luna."

"Hello, Professor," the blonde girl replied rather dreamily, apparently not minding that her platinum hair was now being slicked flat to her head by the rain, making her rather resemble some sort of white-headed duck. Draco bit back a snigger.

"A'right, now, e'ry'un, settle down," the half-giant ordered as the crowd gathered. What little conversation the driving rain hadn't drowned out swiftly quieted. "Right, well, welcome ter class," he began, for whatever reason casting a nervous glance in the young Slytherin's direction. "Today, we're, uh, we're gonna be studyin' a real beauty, here, really somethin' special…"

Draco fought back a groan; he'd forgotten how utterly inadequate the half-giant was at public speaking, let alone teaching a class. He glanced surreptitiously around at the others, and found to great surprise that the professor wasn't the only one shooting him hesitant looks. The rest appeared somewhat confused. It took all of three seconds for the young Malfoy to discern why, and when he had, he felt his insides twist uncomfortably with shame.

He knew he hadn't exactly made the half-giant's job easy in the past; no other teacher would have tolerated his disrespect, but the easily flustered new professor, far from growing angry, had only ever become more anxious. Once, Draco had seen this as a mildly amusing game; now it only made him want to sink into the ground. No doubt the professor had a better command over his classes when he didn't have to worry about the wealthy brat of the school governor stage-whispering criticisms from the back row. In an attempt to show his repentance was genuine, the boy quickly schooled his face into an expression of determined interest.

"Er, um, yeah, a, uh, a real beauty," the professor repeated, and then caught sight of the young man's serious expression and seemed to recover some of his earlier confidence. "So, as yeh all know, Seventh Year yeh'll be studyin' the most dangerous o' beasts I'm allowed ter show yeh. Takes special permissions from the Ministry itself ter be handlin' this stuff, so I'll warn yeh all again: _no one_ is ter get any closer wi'out me say-so. Yeh hear?"

Everyone bobbed their heads. Several of the students looked excited; several more very frightened.

"Right. E'ry'un take a step back, now." They did so hastily, and the professor grinned, turned to the pen and gave a loud whistle.

Out of the forest trotted one of the most magnificent creatures any of them had ever seen. The class burst into gasps, several of the students inching closer to the fence without thought, and Draco stared, stunned, as the golden griffin stopped and tossed its head, eyeing the students with interest. "It's so _pretty!"_ he heard Lavender Brown gasp from behind him.

"Beautiful, ain't he?" Hagrid agreed with admiration. "Now, who can tell me where griffins are from? You there, Jimmy."

"Greece, Sir," said a Hufflepuff whom Draco recognized as James Garland, Sailor's muggle-born beau.

"Right in one; five points ter Hufflepuff. Now, griffins are one o' the oldest documented magical creatures. We've got pictures o' them datin' back more'n five thousand years, if yeh can believe it."

"Pictures?" a Ravenclaw inquired.

The professor waved his massive hand. "Art. Paintin's, symbols on temples and the like. Yeh get the idea. Now as yeh can probably tell by the anatomy, this feller here ain't no vegetarian!" A few people giggled. "Yeh've got a main diet here o' raw meat, which can include humans if they haven't been fed properly."

Several of the students began to back away, but the man chuckled, shaking his head. "Really, now, how long have yeh lot been takin' me classes? D'yeh think I'd starve the beast? No, this boy–" Everyone gasped, shocked, as the professor reached out to pat the griffin's neck affectionately, "He's been fed and well-trained. Don't yeh worry 'bout him flyin' over the fence, either, I've set up a few wards ter keep yeh all– what?" For now the whole class was gaping at him, open-mouthed.

"You touched it," one of the younger Gryffindors whispered, awed. "It actually let you pet it…"

"Oh, not much o' a secret ter that. Griffins are kin to hippogriff's, so they've pretty much got the same temperament; all yeh've got to do is earn its respect. O' course, if any o' yeh lot are brave enough, I could let yeh give it a go," he joked, only to be surprised when a voice called from the back:

"I'll do it."

The class turned. Draco didn't even realize he'd spoken aloud until he noticed everyone staring at him. The professor laughed nervously. "Er, are yeh sure? Proud creatures they are, griffins…" He trailed off. Neither had to be reminded of the last time the Malfoy had made a similar attempt.

"I'd like to give it a go," he said, drawing on his courage, and then added, "Er, if you think it'd be alright, Sir."

The upperclassmen were glancing back and forth between the pair. Parvati and Padma Patil had begun to whisper fiercely in Hindi, and Draco was pretty sure he saw two of the younger Ravenclaws making a bet. Hagrid eyed him thoughtfully, and then, to everyone's surprise, he gave a nod. "A'right, if yer sure. Come forward then."

Draco swallowed and did so, approaching the pen. The griffin seemed to be sizing him up with his golden eyes. "Take off yer cloak," Hagrid instructed, "them silver clasps'll get yeh a claw in yer neck…"

His stomach dropped at that, but there was no backing down now. He took off the cloak and hung it on the nearest fencepost, reminding himself fiercely that he had faced death and withstood torture and lied to the Dark Lord's face; he was _not_ about to turn coward at a bloody school lecture.

"Now climb on inside the paddock; don' worry, I'll pull yeh out if things get hairy."

The blond nodded and clambered over the rail. The class had gone dead silent behind him, holding their breath, as the half-giant stepped over the fence with ease and nodded to the Slytherin. "Right. Now what yeh want ter do is bow, jus' like with a hippogriff– there yeh go!– and then yeh want ter extend yer hand, let him catch yer scent, decide if he trusts yeh or not– no, no, not like that!" Draco broke eye contact just long enough to glance over, startled, as the half-giant corrected his hand position. "Palm facing the ground, let him sniff the back o' yer knuckles; shove 'em in his face like that and he'll think yer offerin' him a treat, bite yer fingers clean off. There yeh are."

The griffin sniffed at his hand with his bird's beak, and then bowed in turn. "Go on and pet him on the neck," the professor encouraged. "He trusts yeh now."

Draco glanced to the half-giant uncertainly, but did as instructed. The griffin closed its eyes as his fingers brushed over the silky gold feathers on his neck. "Nicely done," the professor commended. "Now griffins, they're prouder than hippogriffs even; won't let no one ride on them, not e'en their trainers. But they're natural treasure-guardians, like dragons and Sphinxes; rumor has it some o' the Greek and Egyptian wizard banks use 'em, but that's jus' word on the streets…"

He drifted off, a rather wistful look in his eyes, and then returned to the present. "Right, he's accepted yeh so yeh can stay here; anyone else want ter give it a go?"

"I'll try!" a female voice called eagerly from the other side of the paddock; it was Lavender Brown.

Hagrid nodded, grinning, and helped her up over the fence. "Same idea, now, jus' bow an' let him get yer scent–"

But the moment the girl extended her fingers, gentle as she could be, something terrible happened: the griffin reared and let out a screeching cry, like an eagle diving in for the kill. Its talons slashed down in merciless attack, and it was only thanks to Hagrid's swift jumping between the two and Draco's flash of hindsight as he pulled her away that Lavender very narrowly avoided being cut straight down the middle.

Hagrid let out a roar of, _"GE' HER OUT!"_ as the beast reared again, and Malfoy dragged the terrified girl back to the fence, very nearly shoving her over it before scrambling out himself. The class was screaming; Lavender was in hysterics; the half-giant was still trying to calm the panicked creature, letting out bellows of pain whenever the bloodied talons came down again. Two seconds later Hagrid threw himself over the fence, landing on his back in a blow that made the earth shudder as the griffin charged. The air erupted in a crackle of magenta lightning as its talons struck the barriers.

 _"Is she hurt?"_ the professor demanded, eyes shut tight and teeth gritted, one massive arm clutching the other to his torso.

"She's okay," Draco replied, still breathing heavily. But Lavender was not okay. While not physically injured, she had burst into tears, sobbing over and over, _"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…!"_

"Yeh've nothin' ter be sorry fer," Hagrid growled, getting to his feet. "My fault, forgettin' ter be careful– griffins don't much like werewolves –"

This was the wrong thing to say. Lavender only sobbed harder, leaving Draco in the rather uncomfortable position of bearing up an emotional girl on his shoulder. The rest of the class was whispering. Draco's blood boiled as he saw several of his own younger housemates snickering to themselves. Did they think this was a joke?

"Hagrid, you're bleeding!" Ginny Weasley gasped. It was then that the rest noticed the vicious claw marks along the half-giant's left arm, red blood running down in torrents onto the rain-slicked ground.

"I noticed," Professor Hagrid muttered, jaw still clenched. "Run and get Madame Pomfrey; the rest o' yeh, class is dismissed."

Ginny nodded and dashed off; the other students looked hesitant to leave the scene, but another order from their professor drove them off, save for Draco, Lavender and the Patil twins. The werewolf was still crying, though she seemed less hysterical now, and the kindly sisters quickly took over the job of consolation, for which the Slytherin was incredibly grateful. Inside the pen, the griffin had begun to pace in circles, lion's tail lashing back and forth, clearly still agitated. It didn't stop until after Madame Pomfrey arrived and, after giving Lavender a soothing potion, allowed the twins to escort the sniffling girl away.

As the healer set to bandaging the professor's arm, Draco fetched his cloak and gratefully shrugged it over his now-soaked school robes. As he turned to go, he heard a voice call from behind, "Mr. Malfoy," and turned, surprised.

The half-giant was regarding him with a look of approval. "Yeh did good, kid," he said, nodding. "Yeh did good."

And, just as before, the unspoken message was mutually understood. "Thank you, Sir," the teenager replied, and the man smiled.

* * *

Harry was going to be sick.

Lupin had caught him after class and requested the young wizard come see him at quarter to six that evening for his careers interview, and Harry, knowing the jig was up, had reluctantly agreed. He had spent most of the afternoon studying with Ron and Hermione in the library, trying to forget about his upcoming obligation. At first it had been easy to ignore the passing of time: working on his transfiguration essay; battling Ron with charmed paper airplanes; they'd even popped down to say hello to Hagrid during their study hour, before Hermione had gone off to Arithmancy. But as the time ticked nearer to his dreaded meeting with Lupin, he'd felt his stomach knot itself into ever more convoluted knots. Now the clocks were chiming half-five, and he knew he couldn't wait any longer.

"Just go up there and tell him you're not sure about being an auror," Ron urged him as they left the library. "Honestly, Harry, it's not that hard."

"Easy for you to say," the dark-haired wizard muttered, lowering his voice as a group of fourth-years walked past. "You're not the one who's going mental."

"You're not going mental; you're just working yourself into a state. Now go up there and get it over with already."

And so, feet heavy as lead, Harry dragged himself up to the defense office and, taking a deep breath, knocked thrice on the door.

"Come in!" a voice called, and he swallowed, pushing the door open.

Lupin's office looked nearly the same as it had the last time Harry had visited it, back in his third year. The only difference he noticed was that now his desk also bore a few framed photographs: one of the Marauders, one of Tonks and Teddy and the last, which Lupin was just setting down, a still muggle photograph of a young man and woman in a church, the former of whom bore such a striking resemblance to Remus that Harry could only assume they were his parents. "Harry!" the professor said happily, straightening the photograph. "I wasn't expecting you for another five minutes!"

Harry grimaced internally. He would have gladly taken those five minutes to prepare himself, but it appeared that Lupin was having none of it. "Well come in, sit down; I've got your file right here."

The teenager sat down without a word in the chair in front of the professor's desk; if Remus found his silence odd, he didn't say anything. "Tea?"

"No, thank you."

"Alright then." He sat down in the opposite chair, opening a cream-colored file and scanning the page. "Let me see now, class marks… very nice scores in Defense Against the Dark Arts, aside from your fifth year, and I'll make sure to leave a note about the incompetence of that particular professor… Transfiguration, Charms and Herbology all at proficient levels, although it wouldn't hurt to improve your grade in the first… they don't usually ask for Astronomy, but I'd highly advise putting a little more effort into your History of Magic classes, I know Binns can be a bit dull but it's important material…" He frowned and looked at Harry with mild suspicion. "A sudden increase in your potions scores in your sixth year."

"Er, I may have gotten a little help," he admitted uncomfortably, and then added, "Not really cheating, though, just using better notes."

"I see. House Quidditch captain two years running, awards for special services to the school– ah, and an Order of Merlin, I see!" Lupin joked, as if this were a great shock, and straightened the papers in the file. "Well, Mr. Potter, I feel very confident in assuring you that the Auror Office would be pleased to accept you into their ranks."

This was it, the moment of truth. Harry steeled his will. "…I don't want to be an auror."

Remus, who had been making a note on the page, looked up, startled. The young man was not meeting his eyes, staring straight down at the floor as if he were once again a third-year being scolded by his professor. "Harry?" he said, surprised.

"I don't want to be an auror." He didn't sound any more certain of it the second time- dull and numb, but with just the slightest hint of hope, as if begging Remus to contradict him.

The professor eyed him carefully, and then did nothing of the sort. "I see. And what, precisely, would you like to do for a career?"

Harry shrugged and didn't respond.

"Hm." He leaned back in his chair. "Don't suppose you'd care to explain this change of heart."

"No."

"Ah." He considered for a moment what he ought to do. His surrogate nephew was looking positively glum- no, glum wasn't quite a strong enough term; more like miserable. Unfortunately, he didn't seem to have any intention as to divulging _why._ "Well, I still need to submit an internship application, so why don't you at least give me some hint as to where and under what conditions you'd like to spend a good portion of your life?"

"I don't care. Anything."

More and more curious. He had to get Harry talking, that was for certain- but how to do it? Remus glanced towards the stack of application forms, and was struck with inspiration.

"Very well," he replied lightly, shuffling through the stack and pulling out a sheet of parchment. "I just need you to sign here, and my job will be done for the evening." Harry picked up the quill, not even bothering to read over the sheet. "I'm sure Xenophilus Lovegood will be very appreciative of to take on an editor-in-training."

Harry dropped the quill. _"What?"_

"You said anything," Lupin replied, feigning surprise. "Mr. Lovegood mentioned he'd like help editing the articles, so I thought-"

"I didn't say I wanted to work for the _Quibbler!"_

"Oh? Then I suppose you do, in fact, have some idea of what you'd prefer to do for a living?"

Harry flushed red and didn't answer. Remus sighed. "Harry. Why don't you want to be an auror any longer?"

The boy glanced up, hesitantly, and he saw the fear and guilt filling Lily's green eyes, before they flicked away. "I… I'd rather not talk about it."

"I'm a very good listener," Remus said gently. "And I've had my own share of Shameful Awful Secrets About Which No One Should Ever Know." He offered a smile. "I promise, whatever it is, it won't leave this room."

Harry swallowed, looking very much like a defeated old man. At long last, he closed his eyes and began to speak.

"Professor, ever since- ever since May, I've been having these… nightmares. Awful nightmares. And they've been getting worse." He gripped his hands around the arms of the chair. "I… I see things in them. See myself."

"And what are you doing in these dreams?"

Harry looked up, and the fear had suddenly spilled out of his eyes to the rest of his face, draining it of blood. "I'm an auror," he said hoarsely. "And I- I'm out on a raid, or something, and- and there's this man in front of me. A Death Eater." He swallowed. "And I know that I'm supposed to arrest him, but- but I'm so _angry._ I don't know why, I just am. So angry I could kill someone. And- and I'm torturing him, and then I point my wand at him and-" His voice broke of strangely, hands shaking on the arms of the chair. He dropped his eyes.

"Do you kill him?" Remus said quietly.

"Yeah," Harry whispered. His teeth were gritted hard. "And before you ask, _no,_ my scar isn't hurting, no, he's not back, it's just _me,_ it's _me_ going mad and taking it out on some poor bloke-"

"Harry- Harry calm down!" Remus said hurriedly, standing up and walking around the desk to where the young man was gasping in and out through his teeth. He flinched as the professor set a hand on his shoulder. "Harry, look at me!"

The bespectacled man looked up, and for a moment, Remus was floored by just how much he looked like James, but for Lily's green eyes, which were even now brimming with tears.

"Harry, I want you to listen to me," he said firmly, taking him tightly by both shoulders. "You are not evil. You're _not._ You're simply a young man who has been through far, _far_ too much in his life, more than most people can understand."

"I don't want to be like him," Harry spat. "I don't want to be an auror if it's going to give me that chance!"

"You're not him, Harry."

"You don't know that!"

"I do know that." The man's gasps were coming more quickly now, and Remus shook him slightly, afraid that he would pass out in his chair. "Steady, Harry. Steady. In and out."

The young man managed one breath, and then another. Slowly, his gasping evened out, although his hands were still shaking. "Good."

"He was in my head," the teenager said hopelessly. "For sixteen years he was in my head, and I never– what if something's gone wrong with me, Professor? What if this is just the first sign that something's broken that can't be fixed?"

He looked up at his mentor, desperate, expecting Remus to treat this revelation with shock or perhaps even thinly veiled disgust. Much to his relief, the good professor's expression was one of deep compassion. "I understand, Harry, truly…" He stood and lifted his cloak off the back of the chair.

"Professor?" Harry said, startled. "Where are you going?"

"I get the feeling this is going to take some time. What do you say we go for a walk?"

* * *

The steady rain had lightened to a cold drizzle as the pair made their way around the Black Lake. After nearly ten minutes of silence, which Harry found both disconcerting and oddly comforting, Remus stopped in front of a row of small boulders. He dried them with a wave of his wand and then nodded to Harry. "Take a seat."

The teenager looked up at him, surprised.

"Go on, before the rain wets it again.

Confused, Harry obliged. Remus sat down on the other and took a moment to look out at the lake and the distant gray hills, composing his thoughts.

"The first thing I want you to know, Harry, is that you are not a bad person, and you are not going insane," the professor said at last, turning to his student. "Quite the contrary; you're reacting in a very common way to a traumatic, shocking experience. Frankly considering what happened here I'm surprised more kids _aren't._ And people do things all the time in dreams that they would never, _ever_ do in real life."

"But it means something, doesn't it?" Harry argued. "I mean, what if on a subconscious level, I really _do_ want to, I dunno, go out and torture Death Eaters or…"

But Lupin interrupted him. "On a subconscious level! Merlin's beard, Harry, you've been in a war! If your anger towards Voldemort and his followers is on a merely _subconscious_ _level,_ you're doing a right sight better than the rest of us."

"This is a bit more than just _anger,_ though," the teenager pointed out. "I mean, that bloke…" He shivered, and Lupin nodded.

"That is exactly my point. Harry, would you ever, in your waking life, go out and cold-bloodedly murder someone? Even a Death Eater?"

"I dunno. I mean, I hope not, but–" He broke off, looking away. "A-a few times, I– I tried to use the cruciatus curse. I'm not proud of it, but- but I did."

"Harry." He looked back over, shame in every feature, and found that Lupin's eyes held no judgment. "As horrible and wrong as that may have been, I don't think it's quite the same as what you described, is it?"

"No… but I…" His mouth was tight, lips white with fear. "I still wanted to hurt them. I wanted to make them pay, and… Professor, what if something really _is_ wrong with me? How can I be a good person if I _want_ to do something so evil?"

It took Remus a moment to catch his breath, for Harry's words had hit rather close to home. He could recall saying something very similar to James, perhaps then only a year older than Harry was now, and decided that he would let the father's answer calm the son.

"Harry, I am going to tell you something… something very personal," the teacher said, causing the student's brows to raise in surprise. "But I need your word that you won't repeat what I'm about to say; can you promise me that?"

"Yeah. Of course."

The werewolf took a deep breath and said, as calmly as possible, "You are aware, of course, that Professor Slughorn brews me Wolfsbane potion every month?"

Harry nodded.

"He does a very good job, as did Severus before him. Wolfsbane, as you know, allows me to keep my human mind during the full moon. However…" He trailed off, choosing his next words with great care, "However, there are certain things the potion cannot do, certain… cravings… it cannot prevent. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Harry frowned, confused, and then after a moment it dawned on him. "…Oh," he said, looking surprised and somewhat uncertain. Lupin sighed.

"What I mean to say is, no one is ever a 'bad' person because of what they _want_ to do, only because of what they _actually_ do. Now that being said, if you were burning with an all-consuming need to go off and kill every Death Eater in sight, I would agree that signing up for auror training would be putting yourself in an unwise situation. But as far as I am aware, you have attended school for several weeks without attacking your two Death Eater classmates, so I think we can assume that's not the case, yes?"

"I suppose so," he replied, looking startled that he hadn't come to this conclusion himself. Then, his face clouded again. "But I'm still worried, Professor. I just see so many similarities between us, and I'm afraid that if I keep going on like this, someday– I mean, I don't want to become like him, you know?"

"I do," Remus said sincerely. "I really do, Harry. What do you mean by similarities?"

"Dunno… just…" He shrugged and mumbled, "Both half-bloods… both orphans… and…"

"And?" Lupin prompted.

Harry closed his eyes. "I know I sort of… fixate on things, Professor. Like Quidditch, or… or the Hallows." Remus nodded; he'd heard the whole story back in the spring, and had not at all been surprised to hear about the young man's obsession with the tokens of the story. "And he did the same thing, y'know, with the Prophecy and, well, wanting to kill me. ...What if this is my next obsession?"

"Oh, Harry," Lupin sighed. "Is this what's been bothering you?"

He nodded and fidgeted with his tie, not daring to look Lupin in the eyes. "Harry James Potter, I want you to listen to me," the professor said quietly, gripping his shoulder and drawing his gaze upwards. "You are _not_ a sociopath or anything of the sort."

"I'm not?"

"Of course not. I won't sugarcoat it for you: you are an obsessive personality, I noticed that during your third year. But you didn't get that from Voldemort. You got it from James."

Harry started. "My dad?"

"Mm. He was just the same way; so was Sirius, although in much stronger force. Never could let things go, those two. Dora gets it, too, and Andromeda. You're two generations removed so you're not likely to experience it as strongly, but I'm not the slightest bit surprised that it affects you to some degree."

"It?" Harry said, confused.

"The Black Madness."

Harry frowned. "But I'm not a Black."

"You didn't know?" said Lupin, surprised. "I thought for sure someone would have told you– one of the professors, or Ronald if no one else." At Harry's baffled look, he explained, "Harry, your grandmother Dorea, James's mother, was a Black. You're second cousins to Dora."

"My grandmother? But wait– that means I'm related to Sirius! And you too, I suppose…"

"I can't believe no one's told you. They must have assumed you already knew."

"Oh." He pondered this for a moment, and then a rather important question occurred to him: "How, er, how closely am I related to the Weaselys?"

"Hm? Oh, you're maybe third cousins at worst, certainly no closer." At Harry's deflated look, Remus laughed. "It's hardly scandalous, Harry; all the old wizarding families intermarried for ages, and you and Ginny are distant enough that it really won't matter genetically. But that's why the Madness became a problem in the first place; too much interbreeding among the Blacks led to some unfortunate genetic pairings. Poor Sirius's parents were first cousins." Harry made a face, and Remus laughed and nodded. "Yes, exactly."

The teenager let out a sigh, but now it was contented one; a smile had graced his face for the first time all afternoon, and a great weight seemed to have lifted off his shoulders. "Well!" Remus said, standing up, "What do you say? Can I tell my wife she doesn't have to kill me now?"

Harry hesitated. "There was… there was one other job I was looking at. But there aren't any openings, so…"

"I'm sure that's not true; where were you going to apply?"

"Er, well… here, as it happens," the young wizard said honestly. "I'd like to work here."

Remus raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Yeah, but like I said, all the positions are filled. Besides they've already got a pretty good man for the job I'd want." He gave the professor a wry grin, and Remus smiled.

"Well, I'm honored." He paused, and then said thoughtfully, "Harry, certain people have special gifts. Your dad, he was brilliant at transfiguration. Your mother could charm a furniture set into singing Beethoven's fifth– as a matter of fact, she did once, sixth year." Harry laughed despite himself. "But in this way, I think you and I are a bit alike. By nature, we are _teachers._ We show people what they can't see on their own."

"Yeah," the bespectacled young man said softly, as if awed by a new revelation. "Yeah, I guess so."

"You're a lot of things, Harry; you're brave and selfless and good-hearted. You would be and will be an excellent auror. But," he added with a smile, "you've got a natural gift for education, a gift you would've had even if you'd never been the Chosen One or any of that. You shouldn't let that go to waste because of other peoples' expectations."

"So what should I do now?"

Remus clapped his shoulder. "Be an auror, Harry. Get your experience in the field- not that you need much more of it anyhow." Harry snorted. "And when the time comes, if you feel it's right, send in your application. If there's a job to be had I've no doubt that McGonagall will agree."

"Why not you?"

Remus blushed and laughed, shaking his head. "A werewolf headmaster? No, Harry, this- this is more than enough for me. Besides, I'm fairly sure this is _your_ careers interview?" The young wizard laughed. "Come on. Let's go get those forms filed, hm?"

Harry nodded, face lighting up exactly the way James's used to when Remus had suggested a particularly brilliant addition to a prank, and the professor couldn't help but feel as if for once in his life, he'd managed to do everything just right.

* * *

In hindsight, he should have known better than to trust that particular sentiment.

After spending the rest of the afternoon marking, Remus decided to reward himself with an extra helping of steak and kidney pie at evening supper, so famished that he only gave a passing thought to the fact that the seat beside him was curiously empty. He was halfway through his second slice when Professor McGonagall swept into the Great Hall, climbed the stairs to the dais and informed him tartly, "I would highly suggest, Professor Lupin, that you retire to your chambers early this evening."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yes. And a word to the wise, Remus–" she glanced around and lowered her voice, "–when you considering leaving your occupation, it is advisable to consult your wife prior to speaking with your employer."

He paled as he realized what she meant. "Oh, Merlin. How did she–?"

"I happened to mention it when I was dropping off a few class materials, mistakenly assuming you'd already discussed your plans with her last night." The headmistress's voice was positively chilly. "Sometimes, Mr. Lupin, for as smart as you are you can be _incredibly_ thick."

"You don't need to tell me twice," he mumbled, wiping his mouth and rising to his feet. "Thank you, Professor."

"Don't thank me yet," she said dryly, and he grimaced before rushing out of the hall.

The apartment door was unlocked when he arrived back at the tower, and he pushed it open hesitantly, scanning the room with his impeccable vision. With a sigh, he found that Dora was nowhere to be seen, and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

 _"Ahem."_

Apparently not impeccable enough.

He winced and turned to see his wife standing cross-armed in the kitchen, her hair a violent shade of crimson. Remus bit his lip. "Er, hello, Love," he said nervously. "Where's Teddy?"

Nymphadora raised an eyebrow. "Oh, are you talking to me now?"

Remus sighed. "Dora–"

"Teddy's in his crib," she interrupted, "and I've already _mufflatioed_ the room."

He grimaced. That could only mean one thing. "…We're going to have a row, aren't we?"

"That we are, darling."

He steeled himself, straightened up, and gestured for her to continue.

And that was when Dora exploded.

"What in _Merlin's name_ is wrong with you, Remus Lupin?!" she shouted, throwing her hands in the air. "Quitting your job before I'm even bloody _awake?!_ Are you kidding me?!"

"Dora–"

"I cannot believe you went behind my back like this! We're supposed to be married, Remus! MARRIED! Do you know what that means?! It means that when you make a life-altering decision, you talk to each other _first!"_

"I thought I was doing the right thing!" he snapped. "And frankly, I thought you'd understand!"

"Well that's just your problem, Remus! You _assumed_ you knew how I felt without even asking me! You _assumed_ you knew what was best for our family! For the son whom, I'll remind you, we created _together!_ Do you have any idea how incredibly arrogant that is?!"

"I wasn't trying to be arrogant!"

"No, you were trying to be a noble pratt!" she cried. _"Like bloody usual!"_

"I was trying to protect you!"

"Protect me? Well news flash, Remus Lupin, I don't need your protection!"

"Believe it or not, Dora, yes! This time, you do!"

 _"Excuse me?!"_ Her hair turned a flaming scarlet, and he knew he was in trouble. "I am the chief superintendent of the _bloody sodding Auror Office!_ If anything, _I_ should be protecting _you!_ When were you planning to tell me, huh?! What, were you just gonna come home and say, 'Hi, sweetheart, how was your day? Oh, by the way, I'm uprooting the whole family and moving us to Merlin-knows-where, hope that's okay with you!'"

"I wasn't – that wasn't going to happen!"

"What the _fuck_ does that mean?!"

Remus opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Dora's eyes narrowed. "Remus," she said through gritted teeth, _"what does that mean?!"_

"I–" Oh, this was not going to come out right, he needed to go away, take time to compose himself, "I knew it was safer here, for both of you–"

"You were going to have us stay here," she breathed, hair flushing black. "You were going to leave us again."

"That's not what I said," Remus interjected quickly.

"You didn't have to!" Dora was positively livid, tears filling her eyes in anger. "I cannot believe you, Remus! I cannot believe you were just going to up and _abandon_ us all over again-"

"I WAS TRYING TO PROTECT YOU!" he bellowed, temper finally snapping. Dora's eyes flew wide. "YOU– YOU HAVE NO IDEA– BLOODY _UNGRATEFUL–"_

 _"EXCUSE ME–"_

"DO YOU THINK IT WAS EASY FOR ME, MAKING THAT DECISION?! DO YOU THINK I WANT TO GO?! OF COURSE NOT! _BUT I PUT YOU FIRST!_ I ALWAYS PUT YOU FIRST, AND YOU MAKE ME OUT LIKE I'M SOME AWFUL SOD YOU GOT STUCK WITH–!"

"I _NEVER_ SAID–!"

"WELL I'M SICK OF IT! _I'M BLOODY SICK OF IT, DORA!_ AND MAYBE YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT WHAT THAT MONSTER DOES TO YOU OR OUR SON, BUT I DO! AND I WILL BLOODY WELL PROTECT HIM AND YOU ANY WAY I DEEM NECESSARY! _AND THAT IS FINAL!"_

His words rang off the apartment walls, and for a moment he was satisfied that Dora was not screaming back. Maybe he'd won after all.

Then, he heard it: in the other room, a baby was crying.

Dora let out a low gasp and hurried to the nursery door; both noticed, far too late, that it had drifted open a crack, breaking the muffling charms. Teddy was screaming, clearly terrified by the loud noise of his parents' shouting, and Dora picked him up, rocking and trying to sooth him. It was only then that Remus noticed the tears streaming down her face. "Dora–" he said, uncomfortable, but she shot him a furious glare.

"How dare you," she said lowly, _"How dare you, Remus._ Not care about our son! I–" Her voice broke off into a sob, and she turned away.

Remus watched, remorse crashing down on his shoulders. He wanted to rush over and comfort them both, but his guilt held him back. Instead, he mumbled, "I'll be in the study," and fled into the other room, locking the door behind him and leaning against the door. As his breathing slowed, one thought continued to circle through his mind:

 _I really am a bloody coward._

* * *

It was after two in the morning when Nymphadora Tonks awoke and found that her husband had not joined her in bed. This was not a surprise to her; she assumed he was sleeping on the couch, and was about to roll over and go back to sleep when the little twinge of guilt in her chest reminded her that it was often cold in the apartment at night, and Remus's favorite blanket was sitting on the edge of her bed. Clearly he'd felt too guilty to come in and get it.

With a sigh, she got up, and with that one motion all the remorse she'd felt immediately upon seeing Remus retreat to their office and lock himself inside welled up inside, filling her until she felt she might burst into tears again. She couldn't believe she'd been so insensitive. Of course Remus hadn't meant to abandon them. He'd panicked after seeing the bones, and understandably so; without a doubt, his actions were only those of impulsive, instinctive protection of his family against a truly horrific threat. She alone knew how deep her husband's terror of the man who'd turned him ran; she would never forget the feeling of him trembling in her arms for the first time, after coming across an article of some poor child being attacked. If Remus went a little off the rails where Fenrir Greyback was concerned, well, who was she to blame him?

Gathering up the blanket in her arms, she crept out into the sitting room, and was surprised to see that the sofa was distinctly Remus-free. "Don't tell me you decided to sleep on the office floor, you miserable pratt," she muttered to her absentee husband, walking over to the study door.

To her surprise, it was unlocked. She pushed it open, peeking her head in. "Remus?" she called softly into the darkened room. No voice replied, and she stepped inside, triggering the oil-lamp on the desk to light. The study, like the sitting room, was empty, and for a moment she was frightened before she noticed the note on his desk:

 _Went up to tower. Needed to think. Be down soon._

 _-R._

Dora frowned and looked up. A white cord dangled from the trapdoor in the ceiling. She and Remus had discovered the empty, open tower above their apartment their second day there, and he'd liked it immediately, so she wasn't surprised he'd gone up to clear his head. With a sigh, she summoned her cloak, buttoned it around her shoulders and pulled down the door.

It was a sign of how deep Remus was in thought that he didn't even notice as she crept up the ladder to the floor above. The tower was apparently built as a sort of large observatory, the pillars around the outside forming cathedral-style arches which gave a spectacular view of the grounds, the forest and, in the distance, the now-quiet village of Hogsmead. The wooden railings which had once served to make the tower safe had long since rotted away, leaving only the floor and arches behind; her husband now sat in the middle of one of these, his feet dangling out over the edge into the open air.

She watched him for a while, just drinking in the sight of him. The rainy clouds of the day had faded away, and now her husband's form was framed by indigo sky and stars, greying hair catching the light of the waning moon to flash like silver. He was bent over, head inclined, and she knew from his posture that he was reading from his mother's prayer book, the last gift he had received from Hope before her untimely death. She had seen it often enough over the past three years to know that he went to it when he needed answers, usually to questions he couldn't even bear to speak aloud. Indeed, even as she watched she heard him emit a low sigh, closing the book and tilting his head skywards, lost in thought or prayer.

"…I know you're there, Nymphadora," he said at last, startling her.

"Bugger. And here I thought I'd finally managed to sneak up on you." Dora draped the blanket over his shoulders and sat down beside him, dangling her legs over the edge. Together they watched the pearly crescent moon rise in the indigo sky.

"I'm sorry for overreacting," she said, after a long while. Neither looked at each other; neither had need of it.

Remus sighed. "No, I'm sorry. I should have talked to you first… and then have refrained from being such an over-controlling arse."

"Hm. Can we both be sorry?"

He chuckled sadly. "I think that can be arranged." He glanced over. "Forgive me?"

"If you'll forgive me."

Both managed a small smile, and then fell into silence again. Dora waited patiently, knowing it wouldn't take long for her husband to compose his thoughts. At last, Remus let out another long sigh through his nose and rolled his shoulders.

"…When we were out there, living off the land," he began, eyes gleaming yellow in the light of the moon, "living like animals, he took so much from us."

"Greyback, you mean?"

Her husband nodded. "We couldn't use magic or cook our meat, let alone contact our families or interact with ordinary people. He didn't even allow marriage among members of the pack– called it a 'human institution,' and he wanted to destroy anything that reminded us that we were human." Remus paused. "But he couldn't destroy everything. Our humanity, we craved it, even as so many of us tried to deny it. Little things… shaving. Singing. Marriage and family, love. The way men and women cling to each other, need each other. The way we civilize each other."

Dora remained silent, just watching him. His scars seemed deeper by the pale light, but his face looked younger, too, like that of a battle-worn prince in a fairytale. "It kept me going, Dora," he murmured, "the thought of you, somewhere, waiting for me. Even if it wasn't true, even if I'd rejected you and pushed you away, I needed that… You were always with me."

"And you with me." She touched his arm, drawing his eyes to her at last. "I know this can't just be about the fight. What brought this on, love?"

He shrugged, looking away again. "We discussed it in class today. What it means to be human, that is. And…" He hesitated. Dora squeezed his arm. "When I was talking to Lavender, Monday evening, she asked me about it. About whether we were just… animals. Monsters."

"And you set her straight, I assume?"

"I did my best." He paused. "She asked about the cravings." Dora's eyes widened in surprise, her mouth opening in a little _o._ "I told her they were normal, considering our condition… I wonder if 'normal' is the right word to use. 'To be expected,' perhaps, but certainly not normal." He shook his head. _"Nothing_ about this is normal."

His wife sighed and took his hand in hers, rubbing her thumb comfortingly over his knuckles. For a long while they sat there, until Dora heard Remus draw a shuddering breath. She looked over to see tears brimming in her husband's eyes. "Oh, Remus…"

"He broke me, Dora," Remus whispered, gaze still fixed on the silvery moon. "He broke me in ways from which I will never, _ever_ be able to recover." He blinked, and the glassy tears rolled down his cheeks. "Every month at the full moon I want to do depraved, repulsive things. I _want_ to be an animal… to be like him. And I - I hate him for that."

"He doesn't deserve your forgiveness, Remus."

The man choked out a laugh. "That's not exactly the point, is it?"

"Why do you feel you need to?" she demanded, turning to look at him. "Why should you, of all people, have to _forgive_ a monster like that?"

And the honest truth was, Remus didn't exactly know. He wasn't sure if it was just some grudging feeling, a misguided sense of obligation drawn from the lessons he'd learned at his mother's knee about "loving thine enemies." Perhaps it was some sort of vindictive pride in "being the bigger man" and taking the moral high ground, he couldn't say. All he knew was that, for ounce of loathing and hatred he embraced for the man who had savaged him, there was an equal amount of discomfort in that same fact. It was one of Remus Lupin's rare gifts: he could not give into true and genuine hatred for another person without feeling as if he had violated some core principal of his being. He could hold a grudge for a very long time, decades even… but each day cost him a bit more of his precious humanity, and that was one thing he could not afford to lose.

In the end, he settled on a vague sentiment for his vague thoughts, ringing with the day's irony: "I don't want to be like him."

Dora sighed, unable to comprehend her husband's strange motives, and let go of his hand only to wrap her arm around his waist. He settled his own on her shoulders without a word, and she leaned against him, offering her support.

How long they sat there, staring up at the waning moon, neither knew, but after a timeless interlude Remus sighed and stood, offering her his hand. She accepted, and together they retreated again down the ladder and into their bedroom below. "I married a _man,_ Remus Lupin," Dora murmured, pulling him close. "A man who is good–" she kissed him, "and kind–" another, "and caring–"

"And broken," he whispered as she drew back, unshed tears gleaming in his hazel eyes. "I'm _broken,_ Dora."

She shook her head. "Scarred. Not broken."

A half-sob escaped his mouth, and in gratitude and adoration he kissed her, fierce and burning and bittersweet, fire and wine. When at last he broke the contact, drawing a breath of air, he choked out in agreement: _"Scarred, not broken."_

Then he kissed her again, and this time, neither pulled away.

* * *

 **Hope you all liked it! Please leave a review telling me what you thought! Pax et bonum!**


	15. Chapter 15: Our Deepest Fears

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do I profit from this work produced here.

 **Warnings: depression and suicidal thoughts, self-harm, cursing, violence, mentions of torture (non-graphic), dead infants (non-graphic), wolf attacks (non-graphic), mentions of bodies being burnt and/or eaten by snakes (non-graphic). Oh, and one annoying American. (Sorry! I am an American; don't mean to offend any of my fellow patriots!) Do NOT read the last scene with Draco if you're prone to suicidal thoughts.**

 **A/N: Super long, super later chapter, and probably not one of my best. I'm sorry. I have no excuse other than just plain old writer's block. BTW, what'd you think about the new summary?**

* * *

 _The trees whispered overhead, moonlight gleaming down through the rustling leaves and castling silver-white shadows over the moss and fallen logs. The wind rippled through his fur, the scent of spruce on the air. Somewhere far off, someone howled. He lifted his snout to the white moon and howled in return, reveling in the feeling of pack, of kin and kind. As a third bay joined their chorus, and a fourth, he turned, lifting his nose to the wind. Breaking into a loping stride, he followed where his instincts led him, weaving in and out of the trees, at one with the forest, at one with himself._

 _A sudden scent caught him unawares; he changed his direction without thought, turning east towards the white moon. The scent grew stronger, intoxicating, driving him on, pulling him forward. The trees thinned; the sound of rushing water filled his ears, stars blazing bright through the branches overhead._

 _He burst through the tree line and out into the open, finding himself on a stony ledge of a cliff, jutting out over a roaring river, rapids flashing silver and foamy white below him. Just ahead, framed by the pearly moon, stood the silhouette of a woman. Her hair fluttered in the breeze, a perfect flush of rose against the white, her head inclined towards the child sleeping on her chest. The man marveled at her, for she was beautiful, the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Another zephyr of wind brushed through her hair, wafting her scent towards him… her intoxicating scent…_

 _His heart seized, eyes widening in panic. He let out a bark of warning; the woman turned. "Remus?" she said, startled, but he only barked again, scrambling back. It was strong, too strong, why, why was it this strong? The wolf was fighting him, demanding satisfaction, demanding her blood on its lips–_

 _He growled, dropping to his haunches. The baby cried out; the woman held out a hand. "Remus– Remus, it's me–"_

 _Run, he begged her in his mind, oh, Dora, run! He was at war with himself, love fighting lust, devotion fighting depravity, man fighting beast. He loved her, he craved her, he needed to feed, give in, give in, GIVE IN–_

 _He snarled and crept forward; the infant wailed; the woman backed away. "Remus– Remus, please stop–!"_

 _The wolf won. He lunged._

* * *

Remus shot up in bed, gasping for air. Dora started and grabbed for wand beside him, whirling around. For a long moment they stared at each other, Remus looking down the end of the wand into his wife's frightened eyes.

Then, she let out a sigh, lowering the stave with a deep breath. "Merlin, love, you scared me," she said, smiling wryly. "You alright?"

"I…" He was still shaking, beads of cold sweat rolling down his bare shoulders. He realized, with the heavy weight of disgust, that he was hungry. He was hungry, and had dreamed about attacking his own wife.

 _Monster._

"Remus?"

He realized he had never answered the question and drew a shaking breath, running a hand through his hair. "Bad dream," he managed. "Going to make myself a cuppa."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head. "I'm fine. Go back to sleep, Dora."

Nymphadora eyed him with concern, but nodded and lay back down. Remus got out of bed and headed for the sitting room. As he passed by the dresser, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. A thrill of fear ran through him at the image looking back: pale and shaken, hair unruly, eyes gleaming a luminescent yellow in the darkness. On his right arm lay the brand, still red after more than a year, of a fang crossing a crescent moon, marking him forever as a member of Fenrir Greyback's pack. No wonder Dora had nearly hexed him; he looked for all the world like a Feral werewolf just come off the hunt. A chill prickled under his skin as he realized, had the nightmare been a reality, he would now be just that.

Deeply unnerved, he hurried from the bedroom, not daring to take a backwards glance at his wife and desperately hoping she had indeed gone to sleep. After taking care to quietly shut the door behind him, he sat down on the sofa, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to get ahold of himself. _People do things all the time in dreams they would never do in real life,_ he reminded himself, now feeling far less certain of the sentiment, alone in the darkness, than he had several days prior upon speaking to Harry. _I would never do that to Dora, never… I'm sure of it…_

He made his way over to the kitchen and knelt down in front of the cooling cupboard. A refreshing wave of cold air hit his face as he opened the door, and with it a smell nearly as intoxicating as the one he had encountered in his dream. Remus groaned quietly to himself. He'd mentioned to Dora once or twice before that he'd appreciate her putting the raw meat in the icebox, but he wasn't surprised she'd forgotten.

 _"Lumos,"_ he muttered, snapping his fingers; a tiny orb of light appeared over his hand, and he shined the light into the cupboard, squinting. Yes, there it was; a side of mutton had been wrapped in wax-paper and set aside, probably in preparation for the evening's dinner. He eyed it hungrily, curling his free hand into a tight fist. _Control yourself, Remus._ Merlin, did that smell good. _You are in charge of your instincts; they are not in charge of you._ He could see the juices gathering in the folded corners, red and thick. _You are a man, not an animal._ It wasn't fresh, the blood had been drained, but it was close enough, maybe just a taste–

He slammed the door shut, cutting off the odor. "Agh." He turned his back to the cabinet and sitting down on the kitchen floor. His heart was racing, hands shaking like an addict's. Internally the battle still waged between thoughts of _Dora would never know_ and _How would you like your wife to catch you out here, slavering like an animal over a piece of meat?_ , but now the rational side seemed to be winning. He knew what eating raw meat would do to him, come full moon, and he much preferred spending those particular evenings in front of a warm hearth with Dora petting his ears, instead of pacing back and forth alone, trying to get his darker temptations under control.

Disgusted, Remus pushed himself off the floor and eyed the cabinet with ferocity. He could do this; he just needed a little self-mastery. Taking another deep breath, he opened the cabinet.

The scent of the raw meat drifted out again, but this time he determinedly kept his mind on other things. Lettuce. Carrots. Those tiny tomatoes Dora liked. _Ugh._ He spotted the leftovers of Dora's herbed chicken and let out a sigh of relief, retrieving them along with some bread and cheese. After making himself a halfway decent sandwich, he walked over to the large windows in the sitting room, peering up at the sky.

Stars twinkled down at him, seemingly brighter than usual, and it only took him a moment to realize that there was no moon that night. _Look at you,_ the ugly voice in his head hissed. _Even tonight, when you're at your most human, you still can't fight off the beast. Pathetic._

Remus took a particularly vicious bite of his sandwich, trying to send the voice packing. He'd lived with a deep-seated depression for thirty years, and knew the symptoms like the tactics of an old enemy. _Not tonight,_ he growled internally, _you don't get me tonight._

 _What will she do when she realizes? When she sees how inhuman you really are?_

 _She knows what I am. She doesn't care._

 _Ah, so that's why you're hiding out here, panicking about getting caught nicking from the icebox?_

He paused. The voice had a point.

 _Monster._

 _Shut up._

 _Beast._

 _I said, shut it!_

 _You're an animal, Remus Lupin. And you know it._

A cold weight settled over his shoulders. Suddenly he wasn't very hungry. It was far more tempting to wallow… to brood over his misery, internalize it, analyze it… _give in…_

"Remus?"

He realized he was staring at his sandwich instead of eating it and looked up, surprised. Dora looked back, wrapped in her bubblegum dressing robe, arms crossed as she leaned against the doorpost. She nodded to the sandwich and said lightly, "That's not tea."

"Oh." He shrugged, hoping it came off nonchalant. "I was hungry, so…"

"Mm." She walked over and sat down beside him. "That looks good. Mind?"

He shook his head and tore off a piece, which she accepted happily. They ate in silence for a moment, and then she glanced over. Remus didn't meet her eyes.

"You don't have to tell me," she said quietly, "but whatever it was, I still love you. And I forgive you for whatever it is you think you've done."

He looked up, startled. Dora popped the last piece of chicken in her mouth, and then started when her husband began to laugh. "What?"

"You, Dora. You're… incredible," he said gratefully, shaking his head with a smile. "Absolutely incredible."

Nymphadora Tonks was well used to her husband's mental and emotional complications. Heck, she had a few herself and wasn't afraid to admit it: just a touch of the Black Madness from her mother, a morbid taste for the thrill, for testing the brinks of her own mortality, the obsessive tendencies that refused to let go of something she'd started. He reigned her in, held her close, reminded her that she was only a witch and not the immortal fey for whom she was named. He dealt with her problems, and for more than a year now she'd dealt with his: his insecurities, his nightmares, his compulsive checking and rechecking of the locks and charms on every window and door. Difficult as it was, in some sense she considered it her privilege; Remus had weathered the flow and ebb of personal misery for so long, _alone,_ that she felt honored he had dared to trust her, to let her into the parts of him that were ugly and broken. So when he looked at her with that heartbreaking admiration, so absolutely in love and so absolutely certain that he didn't deserve it, she merely flashed her trademark grin and poked him in the shoulder. "And don't you forget it."

Remus chuckled and went back to munching on his sandwich, now far more cheerful. Dora counted it a victory and went to find herself some tomatoes.

* * *

The sound of a door slamming against its frame startled the sleeping wizard awake, and Draco scrambled for his wand, grabbing it from under his pillow and pointing it straight forward at the emerald curtains, heartbeat thundering in his ears. He didn't cast a curse– in Death Eater society, cursing an unexpected guest could be as dangerous as encountering an attacker– but rather listened very carefully, breaths shallow, ears perked for the slightest brush of a foot against carpet…

Nothing. The room was entirely silent, without even the sound of breathing from the other beds. After a moment he realized that the noise had probably been the door of one of the younger year's dorms. Even as he made this connection, however, another problem occurred to him: since when was his dormitory ever _entirely_ silent? Where was everyone else?

Baffled, he pushed his curtains aside. The dorm was indeed quiet and empty; apparently the other four had gotten up early. Confused, Draco reached for his watch on the bedside table and, upon checking it, promptly swore and leapt out of bed. It was half-seven; classes began in thirty minutes.

He threw on a pair of robes and, of course, carefully combed his hair, before grabbing his books and hurrying out of the dormitory, face burning red with anger. It was obvious what had happened; clearly someone– and he would have bet the whole family vault on a certain half-Italian– had removed the alarm charms on his watch. "Stupid, foul little git," he muttered to himself as he hurried up the stairs, causing a pair of first-year Slytherin girls to give him an odd look. "When I get my hands on you…"

Breakfast was nearly over by the time he arrived in the Great Hall, leaving nothing more than a few plates of cold kippers, some ends of toast and half-jugs of warm marmalade. He checked his watch and found that he had only fifteen minutes until class; grabbing a muffin off a near-empty platter, the young Malfoy heir was just about to leave when a gleaming white owl swooped down in front of him, flying in circles around his head. "Wha- oy!- Persius!"

The owl hooted and dropped a letter on the table; Draco picked it up and recognized the green-stamped seal of the Malfoy family crest. His father's owl hooted again and took off, clearly annoyed at having been made to wait. Surprised, the young Slytherin opened the envelope and scanned the letter, expecting well-wishes and pleasant inquiries from his parents. What he found, however, was quite the opposite:

 _Draco,_

 _Although I wish this correspondence were written under better circumstances, I'm afraid to say that it is not. To be succinct, yesterday morning I received a very troubling letter from the young Mr. Zabini regarding an altercation between the two of you last week. Needless to say I was shocked; we have always been on friendly terms with the Zabinis and, to my knowledge, no ill will has ever existed between you and their son._

 _I was even more astounded to read of his alleged reason behind the trouble; I find it difficult to believe that you caused such a scene over nothing more than a mild prank he played upon the half-breed girl in your class, but as I have no further explanation I am left quite bemused. Draco, now above all else we must keep our heads down; what in the world were you thinking?_

It only got worse from there. Phrases like _"expected better"_ and _"too old for this sort of behavior"_ swirled through his mind, filling him with an uncomfortable sense of guilt for himself and bubbling wrath towards Blaise; he'd never considered that his father would ever get word of the incident. The letter concluded on a somewhat better note with the message,

 _I await your explanation, and can only caution you once again to do everything in your power_ _not_ _to draw undue attention. As an aside, we have not heard anything from you regarding your careers counseling; I think it best we discuss your options soon, as I have no doubt that hack of a head-of-house has made a mess of the thing and convinced you that there is no proper occupation available to you. Never mind him, we'll work something out._

 _Please write soon; you know how your mother worries._

 _All our love,_

 _–Father_

Simmering with rage, Draco folded the letter and stuffed it in his bag. As he hurried through the halls in the direction of the Defense classroom, already drafting his reply to his father in his mind, he made himself a fierce and vengeful vow: Blaise Zabini would live to regret the day he messed with a Malfoy.

* * *

The class was humming with excitement as they took their seats, clearly intrigued with the subject of that day's lesson. Many a student was looking with excitement to the traveling trunk in the middle of the room and then to the blackboard, upon which was written the word in loopy cursive, _Boggarts._

 _"–but that's third-year stuff, that is!"_

 _"–must be a review–"_

 _"–stop complaining; I've been dying to do something practical all month!"_

Lupin allowed himself a small smile, and then raised a hand to quiet the class as the clock chimed eight. "If I could have your attention, please," he began politely, as the students fell silent. "Now as you can probably tell, today we will be doing a brief review of–"

He was cut off when the door slammed open and hit the stone wall behind it, prompting the professor and several students to turn and draw their wands, startled. Draco Malfoy swept into class, glowering, and shot Mr. Zabini a very nasty look as he took his seat. Lupin blinked. "Nice of you to join us, Mr. Malfoy."

"Sorry, Professor," the teenager muttered, pulling out his notes with the sort of ferocity one would expect to use on a dark creature rather than a book-bag.

"Yes, well… five points from Slytherin for tardiness," Lupin replied, curious but deciding it was probably none of his business. "As I was saying, today we will be doing a brief review of boggarts and how to fight them. Now, based on what we have learned, can anyone tell me whether a boggart is a creature or a being, and of what sort? Hermione."

"By ministry classification boggarts are non-beings," she began promptly, and then concluded, "but technically speaking, it's a non-human spirituous apparition."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning it's not a creature or being at all, but a magical substance masquerading as a creature– usually spawned in an area permeated by negative feelings of some sort."

"Excellent, Hermione; five points to Gryffindor." He addressed the class, continuing, "Non-human spirituous apparitions also include dementors and poltergeists; if you were to test the 'flesh,' if you will, of a dementor, you would find that they are made strictly of pure matter, not organized into a cellular structure such as you would find with beasts and creatures."

"So they're… goop," said Dean Thomas doubtfully.

Lupin himself chuckled and nodded. "Putting it lightly, yes. They're little more than magical goop."

"Even Peeves?"

 _"Especially_ Peeves," the professor replied seriously, eliciting snorts of laughter.

"Now recently, another two boggarts were found in the dungeons; they likely spawned sometime in the last year. I had my third years finish off the first, but I thought you all could do with a good refresher."

"Why us, Professor?" Ron questioned, frowning slightly.

Lupin couldn't help but smile. "Because last time I deprived Mr. Potter and Miss Granger of the chance to defend themselves, assuming that the rest of you would not take well to Tom Riddle appearing in the middle of the classroom. Moreover, this boggart is of a particularly strong constitution. Weak boggarts, like the ones I gave many of you in third year, are the most common, but stronger ones are far more dangerous; they will attempt to literally frighten you to death.

"Our deepest fears manifest themselves in different ways," the professor continued, beginning to pace. "Unless a particular phobia or situation is at the forefront of your mind, most boggarts will find the deeper roots of our distress and, depending on their strength, demonstrate it in a more or less sophisticated manner. The stronger the boggart, the more terrifying its manifestations. On that note," he added sympathetically, "I'm well aware that the worst fears of war veterans tend to differ from those of thirteen-year-old children, so participation won't be mandatory today. Is there anyone in the room who would prefer not to complete the exercise?"

There was a pause, and then a few students raised their hands: Lavender Brown, a Hufflepuff girl from Ginny's year, Draco Malfoy, and, surprisingly enough, Harry himself, looking rather red in the face. Lupin raised an eyebrow, but the young man gave a small, imploring shake of his head, and the professor nodded lightly. "Very well; please step to the side. The rest of you, form a line behind Mr. Longbottom- one at a time, please!"

The class quickly lined up behind Neville, whose wand was at the ready. When everyone had lined up, the young wizard pointed his wand at the wardrobe and murmured, _"Alohomora."_

The wardrobe opened; there was no sound, but a moment later, two figures stepped out of the blackness within. Several students caught their breath, but Neville stood tall.

 _"Pathetic,"_ boggart-Frank said coldly. _"How glad I am we lost our senses long before we could see this day: our son, a hopeless half-squib, a certain failure if not for the charity of his fellow students."_

Lupin felt as if his heart had stopped; he knew Frank and Alice, had gone to school with them, had fought beside them in the First War, had visited them periodically for the past eighteen years in St. Mungo's. Was this what Neville feared so deeply? And certainly, it was never a good sign when a boggart started talking; he wondered if he should step in, but although Neville had gone pale, he had not backed down.

 _"A disappointment,"_ boggart-Alice echoed, face twisted into a very un-Alice sneer. _"Lestrange did us a favor, sparing us the knowledge of your incompetence. Thank Merlin our world was not left in your hands, that Riddle marked the Other as his equal-"_

 _"Riddikulus,"_ said Neville firmly, and with a loud crack, his parents had vanished, replaced by two loud, squawking flamingos.

The class applauded. "Well done, Neville!" Lupin crowed. "Ron, forward!" Ron obliged; the boggart whirled about shapelessly for several seconds, before turning into a gold-and-emerald locket, lying flat on a gray slab of stone. The ginger's friends stifled a gasp; the rest of the class blinked, startled. A strange hissing, ticking noise seemed to emanate from it. The locket began to open-

 _"Riddikulus!"_ Ron commanded, and the locket became a silver cigarette lighter. He grinned, and Lupin cried:

"Hermione!"

The witch took her friend's place; a moment later, the boggart presented itself as a large stone memorial, engraved with names and dates of death. Lupin felt his stomach churn uncomfortably as he saw Harry and Ron's names at the very top, followed by those of whom he assumed were Hermione's parents. A wreath of white roses had been laid before the stone

 _"Riddikulus!"_

With a loud crack, the inscription on the memorial vanished, replaced by a litany of appropriate names for Pigmy Puffs. Hermione snorted; the stone split down the middle.

"Pansy!"

Much to the surprise of her classmates, Pansy Parkinson's boggart was an ugly, sneering old woman, dressed in ridiculously affluent clothing but with prominent bald spots showing through her thin hair. She bore some relation to Pansy, leading many of the students to wonder if the woman was perhaps a particularly frightening relative; Lupin knew better, but said nothing. With a wave of her wand, Pansy's boggart swelled and became a fleshy-colored hot air balloon.

"Seamus!"

Several students screamed as the room went pitch black and filled with the stench of sulfur. They weren't the only ones; the hair-raising sounds of someone being tortured– a sound with which many of them were far too familiar– seemed to erupt from every side. A very shaken cry of _"Riddikulus!"_ broke through the screeching, and the room was suddenly visible again and filled with clouds of noxious pink perfume that left the others coughing.

"Ginevra!"

This boggart was a little more obvious: a small, leather-bound journal lay on the floor; without warning, it opened, words spilling across the page:

 _I have control, Miss Weasely; you cannot escape from my-_

 _"Riddikulus!"_

 _Crack!_ The journal had turned bright pink, with a ringed spine and the words _My Diary_ inscribed in gold, curling cursive on the cover- stabbed through with a basilisk fang.

"Gregory!"

Goyle gulped as the boggart became a blaze of fire; though he had to stammer the charm twice, the flames did eventually turn into a bed of ridiculously tall daisies. "Parvati!"

Nagini, slithering through the classroom towards the students. _Crack!_ The snake was a coil of rope.

A flesh-eating slug. _Crack!_ The slug was squished by a boot.

A family member, glassy-eyed, dead on the ground. _Crack!_ The boggart had become a faceless store mannequin.

And so on. Lupin marveled at how his students' deepest fears had changed; once spiders and ghosts, now fears of failure, of loss, of suffering. And they conquered them all.

 _"Riddikulus!"_

 _Crack!_ Dean Thomas's version of Tom Riddle himself grew a large, warty nose.

"Mine!" Lupin cried, stepping forward. The boggart spotted him and whirled in a blur of colors and forms-

Amber. That was what he saw first. Bright, living amber-hazel eyes, looking directly into his own. He blinked, startled.

The other Remus Lupin looked back. And smirked.

Hair, coarse and gray, burst suddenly from his face; the clothes split at the seams as man became beast, claws growing, the gleaming fangs sharpening as he raised his snarling maw to the sky-

 _"A-ROOO!"_

And now the whole class was screaming, scrambling backwards along the wall as the werewolf snapped and snarled. Lupin's mouth was moving, but he couldn't seem to form a full word. _"R-Riddik- rid-"_

 _"Remus- Remus, it's me-"_

Everyone turned to the new sound, as did the wolf; Lupin gasped and dropped his wand as Nymphadora Lupin backed away, holding a wailing Teddy in her arms. _"Remus- Remus, please, stop-!"_

The wolf lunged. Dora screamed; the students shrieked in fear; Lupin let out a hoarse, guttural noise- _"NO!"_

"Oy!"

The class- who had turned away from what was sure to become a bloody massacre- looked over, startled. Draco Malfoy didn't take his eyes from the wolf, having jumped directly in his path. He stood before it now unflinchingly, wand at the ready. "Go on, then!" he spat. "Do your worst!"

The wolf seemed to eye him intelligently, and then shifted. A snake- a clown- a banshee, a basilisk, a dementor-

A towering, cloaked figure stood before the class, his face half-hidden by a mask in the shape of a skull. Several people shrieked at the sight of the Death Eater, who raised his hand to his hood, sleeve falling back to reveal that hated Mark, stark black against the white-knotted skin-

 _"Riddikulus!"_ the young man spat. The black robe turned into a pink, hooded bathrobe; Malfoy smirked, let out a low _"heh,"_ and the boggart burst into a cloud of smoke.

Slowly, the class turned from him back to their professor. Lupin was leaning against his desk for support, trembling violently and staring, wide-eyed, at the place where the boggart had stood.

"Well? What are you all waiting for?" They looked again to Malfoy, who nodded sharply to the door. "Class is over- isn't it, Professor?"

Lupin glanced to him, managed one short nod. The students didn't wait for another invitation; everyone gathered their books and hurried for the door. Within moments, the room was empty, save Draco, Ron, Harry, Ginny, and Hermione.

"Professor?" Hermione said carefully, approaching him. "Professor, are you alright?"

Lupin opened his mouth, but couldn't manage an answer, and instead shook his head. Harry set his mouth grimly. "Chocolate," he muttered to Malfoy. "Check his desk."

If it seemed like a strange request, Draco didn't protest; he quickly rounded the desk and searched for a few seconds, before pulling a half-eaten candy bar out of the top drawer. He returned and handed it to the teacher without a word.

Lupin accepted it, broke off a small piece and ate it, hands still shaking. After another, he managed to calm himself enough to mumble, "-Ah- th-thank you, Mr. Malfoy, I-" He pushed himself upright, taking several deep breaths. "I just-"

"Don't mention it," the Slytherin said warily. Lupin nodded one too many times and didn't speak again.

Hermione reached out and touched his arm gently. "Next lesson doesn't begin until quarter-ten, doesn't it?" she inquired kindly. "Why don't you go see Tonks?"

"Yes, I- I think I shall. Thank you, Hermione…" He walked unsteadily to the door of his classroom and slipped outside as if in a daze, entirely forgetting his briefcase.

"Blimey," Ron breathed, "I don't think he was expecting that."

"I don't think any of us were," Malfoy said lowly. The four turned to look at him, startled. "You think he'll be alright?"

"Yeah- Tonks'll sort him out, she always does," Harry said awkwardly.

"Good." He shouldered his book bag, face still grimly, and headed for the door without another word.

"Oi- Malfoy!" Harry called on impulse. The Slytherin glanced back, surprised, and the Gryffindor hesitated, sticking his hands in his pockets. "That- er- that was good of you," he said uncomfortably, "To do what you did, I mean."

Malfoy stared, clearly not having expected such praise from his arch-nemesis. With a short, jerking nod of his head, he swept out of the room without another word.

* * *

"Here comes the broomstick! Wsssh! Wsssh!"

Teddy "ahhed!" and opened his mouth to receive the bite of oats, causing Dora to giggle. "That's my big boy! Alright, here comes another! Wsssh! Wsssh–"

She started and dropped the spoon as the door opened violently; Teddy hiccuped in surprise. "Remus!" she exclaimed as her husband swept into the room, "I was just-"

Dora was cut short as he pulled her up into a tight, trembling embrace, his hands shaking violently as they grasped at her shoulders. "Remus, what happened?" she demanded, alarmed. "Are you alright?"

He didn't speak, but instead kissed her shoulder and tried hard not to cry. Dora seemed to understand, and fell silent, holding him gently as if to reassure him that she was real, that she was there.

After a long time, she drew away and turned, picking up Teddy out of his chair. They sat down on the couch, side by side, and Lupin swallowed hard. "My boggart's changed," he whispered hoarsely.

"Pardon?"

"It's not the moon anymore." He shook his head. "It's you."

She started. _"Me?"_

"Not just you. Teddy, too. And- and- _me,_ but- but I-" He shuddered as if struck by a sudden chill, and the tears slipped down his face against his will. Dora didn't need to inquire any further.

 _"Shh,"_ she murmured, squeezing his arm. "It's alright. Teddy and I are fine…"

"Not Teddy," he choked out.

"Teddy is _fine,"_ she repeated firmly. "He's _fine,_ Remus, he's _going to be alright."_ As if to confirm her statement, the infant cooed, reaching for his father, but Remus merely shrank away. Dora sighed and ran her fingers soothingly through his brown hair. "It was just a boggart," she murmured, "and even if it weren't, I would still love you."

"I-I don't know what I was going to do to you, i-if I was going to b-bite you or- _or-"_

 _"Shh,"_ Dora repeated, and then kissed him gently. Remus returned it, still crying, and then wrapped his arms around his small family, as if terrified they would somehow be torn away from him.

After a long while, he drew away, reaching for his son. Dora obliged without a word, handing him the cooing infant. Remus kissed Teddy's turquoise down of baby hair and let out a low groan of dismay. "I am never going to be able to show my face in that class again."

"Nonsense. Your students love you; they'll understand."

"I couldn't even take down a bloody boggart. And I'm the son of a _boggart hunter."_ He shook his head with a snort. "My father must be turning over in his grave…"

"Oh really?" She crossed her arms. "And what do you think Lyall Lupin would say is the primary key to boggart fighting?"

He frowned. "To do it as a group, of course."

"Mm-hm. And that's because…?"

Her husband opened his mouth to reply, and then stopped as it dawned on him. "Because it's unwise to face your deepest fears alone," he murmured.

"Hm." Dora smiled and played with his hair. "And that's the lesson you taught your students today. That sometimes, we all fail… but that's why we need each other." She poked him in the chest. "So, Remus Lupin, come Wednesday morning, you're going to get out of bed, put on your big-boy robes and march down to that classroom, head held high. You understand me?"

Remus groaned again, but Dora could see that he was smiling despite himself. She smirked and then her smirk faded as she touched his shoulder. "This wouldn't have had anything to do with your nightmare this morning, would it?" His silence was all the confirmation she required. "Remus, you _know_ you would never do that to me, not in your right mind. You don't even get close to me on full moons if you feel there's a risk; you have more self-control than anyone I know."

"I know," he sighed. "And I told H– one of my students as much, just a few days ago… but it seems, once again, that I'm particularly bad at taking my own advice."

"Hm. If you weren't, you wouldn't be my Remus." She gave him a quick peck on the lips. "Now if you're done brooding, don't suppose you'd like to help me feed Teddy?"

He managed another smile. "As it happens, Dora, I would _love_ that."

"Good; I'll get an early start on lunch." As she headed over to the kitchen, Remus stood and carried Teddy back over to his chair, picking up the bowl of grain mush. Nymphadora grinned at the sight of him making broomstick noises as he fed Teddy the cereal, and then began to take out her pots and pans for lunch, humming a Weird Sisters tune slightly off-key.

As she opened the cooling cupboard, both father and son caught the scent of fresh meat and looked over, heads turning in unison. Remus noticed Teddy's reaction and felt a deeply uncomfortable squirm in the pit of his stomach. Whatever Dora's reassurances, he still couldn't shake the feeling that he had done something unforgiveable. His boggart, he knew, was in itself absurd, for if he were in his lupine form, surely Teddy would be the same. His son, like himself, was already cursed, infected with the virus he'd fought his entire life… inhuman desires and all.

He looked down to the baby, whose wide eyes were searching sightlessly in the direction of the kitchen. Then, much to his shock, the boy looked up at him and "ahhed," waving his tiny fists into the air, and grabbed hold tightly of his father's finger, hair flushing brown and eyes flickering to gold.

Remus stared, shocked. Teddy had pawed at his face and reached for his mother's hair, but never before had he taken his father's hand. The man felt a swell of love for the innocent child, _his_ child. He had helped make this perfect, incredible little being… and against all odds, Teddy loved him back. His _son_ loved him.

Though he didn't quite know why, that one fact suddenly made all the day's fears seem laughably foolish in comparison. "Dora!" he called, reaching for the spoon of mush with his free hand, "Any chance you could move that mutton to the icebox?"

Dora looked over, surprised, and then smiled.

* * *

There was an aura of menace that exuded from the young wizard as he swept through the halls, robes flaring dramatically and icy eyes flashing with all the dangerous power of a Malfoy in a particularly foul mood. Draco for his part was oblivious to the younger students who scurried out of his way, or even the older students who stepped aside, whispering amongst themselves. He could not have known how much he resembled his father in that moment, but to anyone else it would have seemed strangely fitting to see him with a silver-topped walking stick.

The rage was not entirely unwarranted; Draco had spent the larger part of his study period, which he was certain he could have devoted to more productive matters (such as choosing a thesis), writing a letter to his father attempting to explain himself in the best possible light; phrases such as _better to appear sympathetic_ and _didn't want to be implicated_ swirled through his brain. In the niggling part of his mind which insisted on being honest with itself (a part which, until just recently, he had managed to ignore rather well), he recognized that some portion of the anger was really just misdirected fear and an aversion to facing the new and disconcerting changes of view Blaise's prank had forced him to confront. But the rest of Draco Malfoy was well-practiced in taking all his pent-up frustration, fear and anger, and channeling it towards the objective of his choice– which, in today's case, was Quidditch.

The doors to the Slytherin changing room slammed open with _bang,_ causing the other occupants to look up in surprise. Draco crossed the room, crowded with nervous second-years, boistrous fourth-years and a few calmly confident sixth-years to the locker which had been his for the last eight seasons and tapped the combination with his wand, pulling it open with trepidation.

To his relief, everything was just as he'd left it: a bit dustier, still smelling of stale sweat from his last game (they would definitely need a wash before the next match), but otherwise undamaged. As he strapped on his armguards, he heard a voice sneer, "Surprised you dared to show up today, Malfoy."

He turned, a tick in his jaw. Blaise raised an eyebrow back. "Oh, _Malfoy,_ is it?" he replied acidly. "Nice to know where we stand after eight years, _Zabini."_

"I didn't start this, Draco. You did. Betraying us, going behind your friends' backs–"

"Going behind your back? You _wrote my father!"_ Draco snarled, pointing a finger in Blaise's chest. "That's bang out of order, Blaise!"

The other boy's face went stiff. "You've been flirting with the line, Draco, and you know it. Someone had to put a stop to it."

Draco was about to retort when he finally realized that the entire locker room was staring at them. "You know what? I don't have time for this right now." He turned and headed for the door. "We'll settle this later."

Blaise's voice rose behind him: "I wouldn't walk away from me if I were you!" Draco didn't bother to reply, merely summoned his broom wandlessly into his hand and marched out onto the field.

The rest of the applicants joined him a few minutes later, gathering in the middle of the field, shivering in the autumn chill. Draco looked around to see no one stepping forward. "This is bloody ridiculous," he grumbled to no one in particular, "where's the captain?"

"Alright, everyone, listen up!" a voice called, and the crowd parted in two to make way for none other than Blaise himself. "Chaser One position is already filled; we are looking for two more, three backups, players and backups for Beaters One and Two, same for keeper and for seeker. Everyone give me five laps around the pitch!"

As everyone hastened to mount their brooms, Draco could only stare. Blaise raised an eyebrow, and smirked.

 _Shit._

* * *

"How's my hair?"

"Fine."

"You didn't even look!"

Harry sighed and glanced up from amidst the pages of his transfiguration book, glancing over his friend, who was fiddling nervously with the cuffs of his black button-down. "Your hair looks fine," he stated firmly and returned to his homework.

"And the shirt? I've got a blue one upstairs; maybe I should go change–"

"Ron, your shirt is great. Bloody fantastic, even. Now if you don't mind, I'd actually like to pass this class."

"You don't get it," his friend said crossly, walking over to the armchair from where he'd been keeping perpetual vigil at the bottom of the girl's staircase. "This is our first, y'know, _actual_ date. If I blow this–"

"You're not going to blow it."

"But what if I do?"

"You won't."

"But what if–"

"Ron." Harry put the book down again and stood up, taking his friend firmly by the shoulders. "You have pissed off Hermione Granger more often and more thoroughly than anyone else in this school. Even if you do mess up, what's the worst that can happen? She gives you the cold shoulder for a few weeks?"

"Or never gives me another chance."

To his surprise, Harry only snorted. "Mate, she's been in love with you for four years. You'd have to screw up pretty bad to blow your chances with her completely."

Ron let out a low sigh. "Yeah. That's true." He frowned. "That shouldn't be so reassuring."

Their conversation was cut off as the door to the girl's dormitory opened, and both men looked up. And then Ron promptly forgot how to breathe.

Hermione started down the stairs uncertainly, not daring to meet the redhead's eyes. Ron was quickly turning a rather radish-y hue of red; Ginny, who had come out of the dorm behind Hermione, had crossed her arms and was watching her best friend descend with a very self-satisfied smile on her face. Even Harry couldn't help but stare; the witch had donned a pair of muggle jeans and a very flattering gray sweater, and her hair was as glossy and curly as it had been for the Yule ball four years previous. And her eyes… there was something about them, he couldn't quite put a finger on it, but they seemed darker, warmer…

Hermione took a glance up at him, and Harry could read almost read the nervous questions in her eyes. He grinned and gave her a thumbs up, and she smiled, before looking to Ron, who had managed to recover his powers of respiration, if perhaps not of speech. "Um, hey," she said softly, brushing a curl of brown hair behind her ear.

"Hey," Ron replied breathlessly, apparently unaware of the blush slowly creeping down his neck. The pair stood in silence for a long moment, just watching each other.

Ginny coughed, breaking the spell; both started, and Hermione's cheeks turned a rather pretty shade of pink. "Er, shall we?" Ron managed, gesturing towards the door.

"Yes, please," Hermione agreed. He clumsily offered her his arm, which she took with a very un-Hermione giggle, and together they departed the common room, utterly lost in each other.

Ginny grinned as she descended the stairs, watching the door close. Harry wrapped an arm around her waist. "They grow up so fast," she mock-sighed.

"Really? From my end it seemed to take _forever."_

"Mm. Hey, have you finished your transfiguration reading yet?"

"Not quite; why?"

"Well…" She turned, lacing her hands around his neck, "What do you say we go down to the library and turn this boring old schoolwork into a proper study-date?" Her brown eyes twinkled. "We could even sneak in some jam tarts from the kitchen."

Harry grinned and gave her a peck on the lips. "You, Ginny Weasley, are a rebel."

* * *

"A spiced wine for the lady, and a Prongs Special for the gent. Have a good evening, dearies." Rosmerta gave them a wink and walked away; Ron caught himself staring a moment to long and cleared his throat, prompting his date to laugh.

"You do realize she's at least fifty?" Hermione snorted.

Ron flushed, rubbing his neck. "Sorry."

She brushed this off with a wave. "It's fine. I know you don't do it on purpose." Taking a drink of her wine, she added, "Besides, I hope I look that good when _I'm_ fifty."

"You will," Ron said immediately, and then stammered, "I-I mean, I'm sure you will, y'know, because you're so healthy– not that I watch what you eat! I just mean, you're always telling me to eat healthy, and your parents are teeth-healers so you don't eat sugar, and I just assumed–" He broke off as he realized Hermione had started to laugh. "What?"

"Ron, it's okay; I'm not offended."

"Oh." He visibly relaxed, and then admitted, "I'm sorry, 'Mione, I'm just– I'm really nervous. I don't want to blow this, y'know?"

 _"You're_ nervous!" she exclaimed. "I spent forty-five minutes on my hair! And that's ridiculous because you've seen it so many times in a complete rat's nest, but I wanted to impress you and I even had Ginny do my makeup–"

"Oh, is that what you did?" Ron interrupted, surprised. "I was wondering; your eyes look, I dunno, different. Bigger, or something."

"Oh." She blushed. "Do you like it?"

"Yeah. I mean, not that you don't look good without it, but, you know, it looks… nice."

"Oh," Hermione repeated. "Um, thanks."

"Yeah."

They both fell off into an awkward silence, taking a simultaneous sip from their drinks in an effort to cover it. Ron glanced around the pub, feeling a bit uncomfortable, and noticed something rather unsettling. "'Mione," he muttered, setting down his glass. "They're all looking at us."

"Hm?" She looked about, and her eyes widened to see that several of the other patrons, especially other seventh-years, were watching them out of the corners of their eyes in a rather poor attempt to be inconspicuous. "Oh. That's… rather disconcerting."

"Disconcerting? It's giving me the willies."

"Well, we're famous now," she offered with a shrug. "I suppose we'll have to get used to it." She considered it, and then added thoughtfully, "Now we know what Harry went through all those years."

"Ugh. Remind me why I was ever jealous of that." He took a sip from his glass and questioned lowly, "What do we do?"

"Victor said once that he just tries to ignore them. People get bored of staring eventually and go back to their own conversations."

"Huh." Ron looked down at his drink and asked idly, "So, um, you still write him, do you?" When Hermione didn't answer, he glanced up to see her giving him an exasperated look. "What?"

"You're honestly not still hung up on that, are you?"

"It was an innocent question!" he defended.

"I'll never understand why you're so jealous of him," said Hermione, shaking her head in bemusement.

"He's a world-famous Quidditch player," Ron deadpanned.

"And now you're a world-famous, bank-robbing, death-eater-fighting hero who destroyed a horcrux and defied Lord Voldemort to his face," she reminded him. "I think that sort of puts you on the same level, doesn't it?"

"Oh." Ron blinked. "…Guess I never really thought about it that way."

"You should. Besides, you have nothing to worry about from Victor; he's seeing someone now."

"Really? Who?"

"A very nice Bulgarian veela– one of Fleur's cousins, as it happens, not that it's any of your business. Besides," she added primly, "he wasn't with me in the Chamber of Secrets that night. You were."

More touched than he wanted to let on, Ron coughed and hid his smile. "Can I ask you something?" he questioned. Hermione nodded. "What did you see in him, exactly?"

"Oh. Well, he's not exactly my type," she admitted, "but then, neither are you. Honestly, Ron, it was just the appeal of being _wanted,_ you know? The idea of being fancied, more than really Victor _himself,_ if that makes sense."

"I guess, yeah." He paused, and then started to grin. "So… what exactly _is_ your 'type,' then?"

"Really, Ron, it doesn't matter."

"Oh, c'mon." When she still looked doubtful, he said, "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Oh really?" He quirked a grin, and she sighed. "Fine… tall, handsome, preferably dark-haired… rugged and strong, but also very sensitive and intellectual. Oh, and a family man, of course."

Ron snickered. "You know who you just described?"

"Who?"

"Lupin. Y'know, I totally thought you had thing for him back in our third year..." He chuckled again, and then noticed that his girlfriend had turned pink at the cheeks. _"No,"_ he said, voice hushed.

"What?"

Ron gawped, looking as if Christmas had come early. "You _fancied_ him!" he accused gleefully.

"Only a little!" Hermione protested, blushing deeper.

But now the young wizard was practically in stitches. "Bloody basilisks, 'Mione, he's twenty years older than you!"

"It was a _minor crush!"_

"Oh sure, like your _minor crush_ on Lockhart!"

"Yes! It– wait, _no!_ Ron!"

Ron was laughing too hard now to control himself. Hermione glared. "It's not funny," she huffed, clearly embarrassed.

"I-I'm sorry, 'Mione," he snickered, trying to get ahold of himself. "Really." She smacked him lightly on the arm, turning away. "Oh, c'mon; don't be like that."

"You're making fun of me."

"I'm sorry," he said again, grinning but managing to restrain his laughter. "So."

"So?"

"So why Lupin! I mean, with Lockhart it was obviously looks-"

"It was not!" she huffed, indignant. Ron gave her a look, and she admitted, "Okay, the looks _helped._ But honestly, they were just both so smart, or at least, we all _thought_ Lockhart was smart…"

 _"I_ didn't."

"Well, he sounded smart in his books. I suppose he had others write them." She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm attracted to intelligence, Ron; it's part of why I like you."

He stared at her. Hermione frowned, crossing her arms. "What?"

"…You think I'm intelligent?"

"Of course." At his continued surprise, she clarified, "Well, you're awfully thick about some things, of course, and you're not bookish, not like I am. But you're really clever, Ron, cleverer than me in some ways. And, well…" She went red and ducked her head, finishing with a bashful, "And I happen to find that very attractive."

A slow smile was spreading across his face. "You mean it," said Ron, awed. "You really think I'm smart enough for you."

She frowned. "Ron, I wouldn't be interested in you if I _didn't_ think you were smart enough for me. For goodness' sakes, I've never once beaten you at chess."

"Yeah, but that's chess; anyone can be good at chess."

"Thanks; that makes me feel so much better." At his smug grin, she crossed her arms and said, "Alright, your turn."

"My what?"

"Your turn! What's your type?"

"Oh." He considered it, and then said carefully, "Okay, 'Mione, now you can't get offended if it doesn't quite match–"

"I won't; go on!"

"Well… a good cook, for one." She gave him a look, and he hurried on, "And good with kids, y'know, so she'd make a good mum. And smart–" He gave her a nod, "and outspoken. Oh, and a redhead."

"A redhead?" Hermione said, looking amused.

"Family tradition." He frowned. "You're not mad, are you?"

To his surprise, she laughed. "Of course I'm not mad, Ron. After all–" she smirked and took a smug drink from her wine, _"–you_ just described your mother."

* * *

"–Gladwyn and Duggard, first and second beaters; Sargent and Saunders, backups. Alright, seekers! To the front!"

Draco shouldered his broom and strode forward, looking around for his competition. He snorted as a rather frightened-looking fourth year slunk forward, appearing positively white with fear. "Alright, standard tryout procedure," Zabini explained lazily. "We're going to release one snitch; both of you try to catch it before the other." He gave a nod to the assistant, who unsnapped the locks on the snitch; with a split second, the tiny gold ball was out of sight. "Seekers, on my mark!"

The two contenders mounted their brooms. "…Hey," the fourth-year said hesitantly, glancing over and extending a hand. "Um, I'm Perry Tucker. I just wanna say, you know, good luck."

Draco looked over, surprised, and then decided to cut the kid a break. "Draco Malfoy. You too."

"And… GO!"

Both kicked off at the same moment; Tucker shot high into the air and fumbled for a moment before bringing his broom to a stop. Draco climbed several feet higher, already scanning the field for that flick of gold. The autumn clouds had blanketed the sky, making it difficult to spot any flick of–

 _There!_ He sped forward, but just as quickly the fourth-year was on his tail; the snitch seemed to anticipate their mad dash and zipped away towards the opposite end of the field, causing the pair to speed off in pursuit. They followed the gleaming ball in a sharp dive to the ground, and then just as swiftly straight back up near the top of the stands. Draco had to admire the kid's skill; he would make a good replacement for the team in the next year.

The snitch circled them just as they got close and then whizzed off between two of the goals, hanging just behind the lower part of the hoop. The two analyzed the situation in a split second: there wouldn't be enough time to go through the ring and turn around before the snitch flew off again. Both dove forward; Draco straight for the goal, Tucker slightly to the left, clearly intending to sweep past along the back.

That was the edge Draco needed. Half a second away from the ring, he rolled his broom over and ducked his head to avoid the bottom of the goal. Quick as blinking he shot his hand out and snatched the snitch out of the air, the tail of his broom missing the Tucker's head by mere inches. Righting his broom, he pulled to a halt and held his hand up in the air.

At the whistle's blow, he and Tucker both swooped down and landed, the latter looking disappointed but resigned. "Hey," Draco said, and the boy glanced over. "You fly well. Keep practicing; the team's going to need a good seeker next year."

Tucker grinned despite himself and nodded. "Thanks."

Their conversation was cut short as Blaise walked forward, a rather sour look on his face. "Snitch," he said flatly, holding out his hand.

Draco handed it over, not bothering to hide his smirk. "Alright, so our team is set," Blaise called, turning to the others. "Zabini, Thorne and Wyght, chasers; Yates, Owen and Rye as reserves. Jamison and Hogarth, keeper and backup. Gladwyn, Duggard, Sargent and Saunders our beaters, and–" He turned to the pair, "Perry Tucker as our seeker. Malfoy, you'll be playing backup."

Draco's mouth fell open. _"What?"_

"But sir, I didn't catch the snitch," Tucker protested, stepping forward. "You must not have seen–"

"I saw everything I needed to. You're the one I'm playing" Tucker made to protest, and Zabini cut him off, "Look, kid, do you want to be on this team or not?"

"You bastard," Draco growled before the boy could reply, throwing down his broom and stalking forward. "This hasn't got anything to do with Quidditch and you know it."

"I'm the Captain, aren't I?" Zabini snapped. "And I can play whoever I want."

"You've got a problem with me, Blaise? Fine!" He drew his wand, grabbing hold of the other boy's robes. "Let's settle it right now!"

The whole pitch seemed to crackle with tension; no one else dared speak. "Careful there, Draco," Blaise breathed. Draco sneered. "There's no rule that says I need to assign reserves. Now if you even want to see the inside of that changing room this year, I would suggest you let go of me right this instant. Understood?"

Draco gritted his teeth. He was itching to hex Blaise within an inch of his sorry life, but he knew that the threat wasn't empty. "…Fine," he muttered, letting go of Zabini's robes and stowing his wind. "Fine. You win, Blaise. But you and I, we're done." He picked up his broom and stalked off towards the castle.

"Fine by me, you mud-licking blood traitor!" Blaise called.

Draco froze. Zabini crossed his arms with a smirk, an eyebrow raised expectantly. The blond's hand tightened into a fist around the handle of his broom, jaw tightened. For one tense moment everyone was sure he would turn around and curse the captain, but instead, the young man merely straightened his back and walked off, sparks of wrathful emerald energy fizzling in his wake.

* * *

 _Knock-knock-knock._

Lavender jumped as she heard a loud _bang!_ erupt from the other side of the door. "Professor?" she called, worried, only to find the door open to reveal a soot-faced Professor Slughorn. "Oh my goodness! Professor, are you alright?"

"Oh, fine, fine!" the old man said dismissively, wiping his face with a handkerchief. "Just added a pinch to much powdered horn of bicorn; a few leaves of chamomile should sort it out. Come in, come in! Make yourself at home!"

Lavender followed him inside the laboratory, looking around with unmasked interest. Potions and brews were bubbling in cauldrons on all sides, letting off clouds of emerald and violet steam, and on a lab table to her right an electric-blue serum seemed to be working its way through the coils of a still. "Are you working on some sort of delayed explosive?" she inquired as she inspected the nearest cauldron, in which bubbled a fiery red mixture.

"Just so, Miss Brown; I'm impressed you recognized it!" Slughorn called over his shoulder, fetching a bottle of dried chamomile leaves. "Turn that burner down to medium heat, would you?"

She complied, watching with intrigue as he dropped in several crushed leaves into the pot. The potion hissed ferociously and then thickened to a dark russet mud. "Now, my dear," the professor said, turning to her, "How may I help you?"

"I'm here about the assignment you gave us," Lavender explained, both simultaneously wrinkling their noses and stepping away as the concoction began to smell violently of sulfur. "You wanted us to propose a hypothesis regarding the effect of the noon sun on potions containing shredded vegetation, but I can't seem to work out quite _why_ the sunlight has such an effect."

"Ah, well, for that you would need to go a bit further into the biology of living matter," said Slughorn, tapping his nose, "but suffice it to say that the cellular structure of plants allows for the conversion of solar energy into the chemical energy contained in sugar–"

"–Which of course would work as food for the potion's reaction," she realized aloud. "Of course! Thank you, Professor."

"Oh, naturally. Now is there anything else I could help you with?"

"Actually, as it happens, there is," she began hesitantly, clasping her hands. "I was wondering if I might have your permission to specialize in potions for my senior thesis?"

Slughorn's face lit up. "My permission? Why, Miss Brown, I would be delighted! What did you have in mind?"

"Well, I– I was wondering if there were any way I could work on brewing and modifying the Wolfsbane Potion." When she saw his face fall, she added quickly, "I know it's a terribly tricky potion, but I really think I'm up to it, Sir. And perhaps if I could find a way to make it cheaper–"

"My dear– please, don't misunderstand me," the professor interrupted uncomfortably, "but it requires a certain proficiency in alchemy to modify a potion. And more to the point, I regret to say that the dexterity that brewing Wolfsbane requires would make it unfortunately impossible for someone of your condition to manage it. Too many of the ingredients would prove far too volatile for you to handle."

Lavender's eyes dropped to the floor. "Oh. I see," she said softly.

"I'm afraid I simply can't in good conscience allow you to risk your personal safety under my watch. I'm sorry." He patted her shoulder. "But I'm sure you'll find something else, hm? Perhaps felix felcis, or veritaserum? Both are highly useful and, I wouldn't doubt, prove themselves to be well worth the effort."

"I sort of had my heart set on Wolfsbane. But I'll think about it," she conceded with a sigh. "Thank you anyway, Professor."

"Of course. I'm truly very sorry, my dear."

"So am I… have a good evening, Professor."

"And you, Miss Brown."

The young witch left the lab and climbed up the stairs to the upper halls in a state of dismay, so lost in her own thoughts she didn't bother to look where she was going. She had never considered that her newfound allergies would inhibit her ability to brew potions, one of the few subjects in which she was genuinely skilled. She had only wanted to make Wolfsbane because she knew she wouldn't be getting it for free forever, and now she couldn't even find a way to make it herself. _It's not fair,_ she thought bitterly. Why had Greyback gone after her, of all people? Why had fate decided to drop such rotten luck on her? She was a relatively good person, wasn't she? Surely she didn't deserve this!

She paused as she passed by a window on her way up a spiral staircase, looking out into the growing gloom. Far across the western horizon, nearly invisible to the naked eye but which her golden, canine irises could not help but see, was the first sliver of the waxing moon. Lavender glared at it ferociously, tears burning in her eyes. It didn't matter how hard she cried or how loudly she howled, the moon was coming for her. And in two weeks it would find her, whether she was ready for it or not.

After all, if there was one thing the last year had taught her, it was that life wasn't fair.

* * *

"–and then my dad said, 'I've missed England, but let's be honest, darling, Devon is far too cold for surfing.'"

Ron snorted, taking another sip from his glass. "I can't imagine your dad doing something like that."

"Nor can I! He and mum want to take a trip next summer, says he'll teach me. I haven't the heart to tell him I'm terrified!"

"Can't be any worse than riding a thestral, can it?"

"No– but you know me, I'm no good with that sort of thing." She fell quiet for a moment.

"Hey." Ron reached across the table and took her hand in his, causing her to look up in surprise. "You did what you had to do," he said seriously. "You probably saved their lives, 'Mione."

"I know," she sighed. "I just feel like there ought to have been another way."

"Maybe. But your parents love you, they know you were just trying to do what was best for them." He squeezed her hand. "That's what family is all about, y'know?"

She nodded. "Family… family is important." She bit her lip.

"'Mione?" Ron was concerned. ""What's wrong?"

She looked to him with nervous brown eyes, and then took a deep breath. "Ron. Have you heard back from George yet?"

It was as if a cold wind had blown through the room. Ron's face froze; without meaning to, his hand dropped Hermione's, and he pulled away, clasping at his drink. "Er, not yet, no," he mumbled, not meeting her eyes.

"Ron, you have to tell someone," she nearly whispered, glancing around the pub; no one was paying them any attention, so she continued, "He needs _help."_

"What he needs is _time,"_ Ron said sharply, dropping his tone as well. "Look, Fred's death has hit him harder than any of us; he just needs a while to– to figure things out, alright?"

"But he's _not_ figuring it out! This, Ron, this is _keeping_ him from figuring it out, from moving on with his life! And he's doing the same to you!"

Ron stiffened. "It's not like that. He didn't ask me to help him–"

"–But you do anyway, because you're his brother and you love him," she finished. "I _know,_ Ron. But this, it's not _healthy!_ He needs to– to talk to someone, your parents at least need to know–"

"Mum and Dad don't need to know _anything!"_ Ron snapped. "It's his problem, he can take care of it himself!"

"Oh really?" Hermione demanded, crossing her arms. "Because it looks to me like the only one trying to take care of it is _you."_ He looked away, jaw clenched. "Look, I loved Fred just as much as the rest of you–"

 _"No,"_ Ron cut her off sharply, startling her. _"No,_ you didn't. He was your friend, Hermione, but Fred, he was _our_ brother. And you've got no idea, _no idea_ what that's like. So if this how George wants to cope, then frankly I don't think it's any of your bloody _business."_

She gaped at him, shocked. "You _made_ it my business when you _told_ me! And I'm sorry, Ron, but drinking himself into a stupor every day isn't _coping!"_

"Say it a little louder, would you?!" he hissed, glancing around.

Hermione pretended not to hear him. "This isn't what Fred would have wanted and you know that! You need to get him help, or honestly, Ron, you're going to lose another brother!"

"So what, I just _betray_ him? I _swore,_ Hermione! I promised him on Fred's _grave_ that I wouldn't tell!"

"A promise that Fred would want you to break!"

"I don't _know_ what Fred would've wanted!" Ron bellowed, standing up so violently that he knocked over his chair. Everyone in the tavern looked over, surprised. "I don't know and I will never know, because he's _dead!"_

"Well I do!" Hermione stood up too, face flushed with wine and anger. People were starting to whisper. "And I'm not just going to sit here and watch two people I love destroy themselves!"

"No one's keeping you here, are they?! Go if you want to; we'd be better off without you anyway!"

Hermione let out a gasp, and Ron immediately felt guilty as he saw tears fill her eyes. "Fine!" she cried and spun on her heels, grabbing her cloak and stalking towards the entrance.

"Fine!" Ron added petulantly, wanting to have the last word. Hermione responded by slamming the pub door behind her.

The redhead heaved an angry breath and turned to find the whole of the Three Broomsticks staring at him. Scowling deeply, he dug a few sickles out of his pocket and threw them on the table. "Keep the change," he muttered to the scandalized Rosmerta, before following his (ex?)girlfriend's dramatic exit out into the falling night. He seethed and fumed all the way up to the Gryffindor common room, snarling the password _("Fortitudo!")_ at the Fat Lady so viciously that she jumped and swung aside.

Harry was waiting for him inside. "What happened?!" he demanded, shocked. "Hermione just came in her crying– Ginny's up with her– did you two have a row?" Ron brushed past him without a word, heading for the stairs. "Ron!"

He fell silent as his best friend whirled around, blue eyes blazing with anger and self-deprecation. "I blew it," he said shortly, and then stalked upstairs and into the dormitory, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

 _Bzzzz-t!_

The owls ruffled their feathers, letting out hoots of annoyance at the boy below them. They weren't used to lengthy visits in the owlry, much less during their hunting hours, or from annoying humans who insisted on playing with flying shiny objects that they knew they weren't allowed to chase.

 _Bzzzz-t!_

 _Bzzzz-t!_

Draco let out a low sigh as he released the snitch again, only to catch it a split-second before it was out of reach. He was doing it mostly on reflex at this point; his mind was lost in thought, drifting over the day's events, from the boggart fiasco that morning in Defense to the confrontation on the Quidditch pitch.

 _"Mud-licking blood traitor!"_

He scowled and clamped his hand down rather too hard on the snitch; the silvery wings gave a violent flutter in protest. _Blood traitor,_ he sneered to himself, _as if! You'd think I was going around offering to carry Granger's books and making plans to visit Weaselby's hut over Christmas!_ He snorted at the thought; his father would probably have a conniption. No, he wasn't a blood traitor; he was just… just trying to be cooperative with the new order, to survive and thrive; that was what the Malfoys had always done, after all, no shame in that…

 _Except that isn't quite true, is it?_ that irritating little voice whispered. _You believe Lupin, don't you? You know now that you can't steal magic…_

Draco scoffed and caught the snitch again. Alright, so maybe mudbloods weren't _actually_ magic-thieves; that certainly didn't mean he had to _respect_ them.

 _Doesn't it, though?_

"Shut up," he muttered aloud.

 _You._

"Oh, very mature." Even his conscience was petulant.

 _Don't say that talking to yourself is the first sign of madness?_

He was about to reply, but then decided not to dignify that claim with a response. With a sigh, he refocused his efforts on his game of catch-and-release, which was growing more difficult as his fingers stiffened in the cold evening air.

His boggart, to say the least, had been surprising. Draco had frankly been expecting some grotesque scene from his terrifying months under the dark lord's rule: the horrid disposal of Professor Burbage, for instance, or one of his aunt's more gruesome victims. He could pick out several off the top of his head: the terrified muggle who had been captured just for sport. The elderly wizard she'd starved for several days before finishing him off. The half-formed infant struggling for breath as he cradled it in his arms, too small to survive, cut from the belly of a mudblood woman whose corpse was even then going up in smoke from the pits behind the manor…

He shut his eyes tight at the memories, the snitch slipping past his fingers and buzzing out into the night. An owl swooped down to claim it as a treasure, but he paid it no mind; his blood was pulsing in his ears, the image of his boggart seared into his mind. Why, _why_ had it been that? Why had the sight of it reaching for its hood terrified him to his core? _What was he so afraid of?_

Heart in his throat, he reached with a shaking hand and pulled down his sleeve. The Dark Mark leered back, reminding him what he had given up, what he had lost.

* * *

 _…"So you wish to take your father's place, do you?"_

 _He fought to keep his voice steady, head bowed, knees aching with the contact to the cold stone floor. "Yes, my lord."_

 _"Hm." He heard the dark lord stand; a spasm of fear ran through him, twitching his hands against his will. "And what makes you think you possess what it requires to join these honored ranks, Draco?"_

 _"I–" Why couldn't he think of anything to say? "I'm– I would–"_

 _"He's a good boy, my lord," his mother broke in, voice trembling. "Strong– obedient– loyal to the ancient ways–"_

 _"Loyal?" the soft voice broke in, cutting Narcissa off. "Tell me, Draco, does the Malfoy family know the meaning of that word?"_

 _"I…" Speak, speak you fool, before he decides he's through with you! But Draco couldn't bring himself to say a word._

 _There was the swish of robes to his right as the dark lord began to pace in a circle around him. "Look at this… magnificent… hall," he said, no doubt indicating the grandeur of Malfoy Manor. "Polished marble floors… antique chandeliers… tell me, Narcissa, are these candlesticks pure silver?" His mother, wisely, recognized this as a rhetorical question and remained silent. "I imagine the Ministry would have been delighted to get their grubbing hands on it. No doubt you had to lighten many a judge's pocket to evade Azkaban."_

 _"No doubt," Bellatrix repeated scornfully._

 _"Loyalty… hm." He turned, robes slithering along the floor; Draco didn't dare turn his head as the dark lord crossed behind him, turning to his most trusted lieutenant. "But, thankfully, you have an advocate," he continued. "Bellatrix, tell me: what is your opinion of the boy?"_

 _This was it. Draco held his breath._

 _"He is strong, my lord," his aunt crooned, slinking closer to her master. "He bears the blood of the Noble Blacks in his veins, and is not the coward his father is. He can be trusted."_

 _"You vouch for him, then?"_

 _"I do, my lord."_

 _A long silence. The hall floors felt like ice._

 _"Very well." Draco let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "You are in luck, Narcissa; boy, your arm."_

 _Draco scrambled to pull up the sleeve of his robes, his hands numb from shock and cold, and stuck out his arm, forcing him not to shudder as the dark lord curled his fingers around it. He let out a sharp cry as the man pulled him forward, falling onto his right hand so that he crouched nearly on all fours._

 _"Morsmordre," the dark lord whispered, pressing his thumb to the boy's forearm, and Draco screamed aloud as pain seared through his veins, vision flashing black and white and red, blood pounding in his ears and oh, make it end, please, just make it end and he would do anything, anything-!_

 _And then it was over. The dark lord released him and he fell to the ground, curling up around the arm and gasping for air, tears rolling down his cheeks. The sound of laughter met his ears, and he realized the death eaters– his new comrades– were amused by his pain. A sickened sensation filled his stomach. For all his faults, Draco had never found the sight of torture entertaining. Am I going to be like that, he wondered to himself? Is that what the Mark does to you?_

 _"Get up, boy," a disdainful voice commanded. He stumbled to his feet, still clutching at his arm. "Welcome," the dark lord continued, "welcome to the ranks of greatest purpose in the history of wizarding kind. You bear now the weight of our cause: to defend our people from the magicless underlings who once sought to destroy us; to drive from the earth any of those thieving menaces who have deprived our brethren of their rightful glory; and to cull from our world any impurity which would endanger our cause. Welcome, Draco Lucius Malfoy, to the company of those whom even Death would do well to fear."_

 _"Welcome," the others repeated in unison. The boy jumped._

 _"And now, having given over your life to our cause, we bestow upon you your first mission:–"_

 _Draco didn't care. He didn't care if his mission were to clean the very grime from the boots of his new superiors, he was just grateful that his daring to ask for his father's position hadn't been a death sentence._

 _"You, Draco Lucius Malfoy, are charged with the task of bringing about the death of Albus Dumbledore."_

 _Draco's breath froze. The whole hall fell silent. Kill– kill THE Albus Dumbledore? Impossible. No one, no one had ever managed to do such a thing, no one had ever even come close…_

 _"My lord," his mother whispered, "My lord, he is just a boy–"_

 _"Silence." Narcissa closed her mouth. Draco glanced up, and found the scarlet eyes boring into his. "Well, boy?" the dark lord inquired softly, but there was a sneer upon his face. "Will you accept?"_

 _Could he do it? Could he really kill a man, let alone the greatest wizard since Merlin to ever walk the earth? But how could he refuse?_

 _Behind him, he heard his mother let out a low gasp of pain._

 _There was nothing for it._

 _"I will accept."_

* * *

Broken from the memory, Draco swore loudly and slammed his fist against the owlry wall. "You fool!" he cursed, "You bloody, effing, sodding _fool!_ You– you–"

It was as if a will not his own had come to life inside of him; he clawed at his arm like a madman until the blood ran red, cursing the whole while, cursing himself and the dark lord and every victim he had ever watched suffer while he stood idly by, too terrified to do anything, too terrified even to run. Again and again he scourged his skin, disfiguring the gruesome skull, making it weep ruby tears until the fire dissolved into a shaking, gasping grief. The boy stared down at his savaged limb, a bloody mess of flesh and tissue, crimson leeching from it in little rivers that fell to the owlry floor and stained the stone. For a long moment he watched it, tempted to take his wand and cut deeper still, let it run out until he could neither feel the crushing weight of his guilt nor anything at all.

Then, the violent urges faded, his common sense returned. He'd watched enough unfortunate souls bleed out on his own parlor floor to know that the brutal ugliness of death was nothing to be romanticized, suicide even less so. Draco drew his wand with a feeling of exhaustion and waved it over the wounds, muttering _"Vulnera sanetur"_ over the ripped flesh. The wounds laced back together, new flesh covering the old, and he gazed at his forearm in defeat.

Burnt black, stark against the pale, knotted flesh, the Dark Mark leered back.

* * *

Maggie MacIver was a grateful sort of person.

She hadn't always been that way. Once, her life had seemed to be full of magic, of glitz and glamor and the sort of high living one finds in marrying into the upper crust of any government branch, and yet it had never been quite enough for her. She had been so terribly unhappy in her manufactured happiness; in spite of her perfect marriage, her perfect life, she had always wanted more.

But that had been before tragedy. That had been before war and poverty and suffering, before agony the likes of which few would ever know and the desperate clinging to the simplest, most primitive of joys: of a full belly, of a prayer in the darkness, of the warmth of your husband's arms despite the cold pressing in on every side. Yes, twenty years of such bleak misery and hard-fought happiness had made Maggie MacIver into a very grateful woman, and so it was that she was thankful even for the littlest things: a one-room flat, hot food on the table, and a job that kept her beside a warm stove from January to July.

The kitchen door opened, startling her from her reverie. "Meat pasty, Maggie dear, and on the double; this one's an American."

The cook looked up from where she had been bent over a stew-pot, clouds of steam filling the kitchen air. "Oh dear. I thought tourist season was over?"

The waitress snorted. "So did I. He's the angry businessman sort of type, gives his whole continent a bad name, you know the sort. Anyhow, he claims he's in a 'big hurry.'"

Maggie sighed and nodded. "Be right on it, Agatha." Although just forty and as of yet only sporting a few crows-feet crinkles around her cheerful hazel eyes, her short-cut hair had already turned gray, giving her the startling appearance of a woman with a soul too old for her face. "That refrigerator is acting up again; any chance you could send John in and manage the bar for a bit?"

"Will do. You know, I'll never know how he manages to fix things around here so quickly, but I suppose a handyman learned a few tricks after all those years, eh?"

Maggie smiled. "I suppose so." She watched Agatha leave, and then turned back to the oven, raising the temperature a bit and humming to herself.

The kitchen door opened and a moment later, a nose and pair of lips pressed themselves to the nape of her neck. Maggie laughed. "John, I'm a bit busy here."

"Can't help it, love," the lips murmured. "I swear you get more beautiful every day."

"Hm. Couldn't be the fact that we're actually eating half-decently now, could it?" He snuffled her hair, and she laughed, turning and smacking him on the shoulder. "Stop being cheeky and fix the refrigerator; it's on the fritz again."

"Will do, love." He walked over to the corner and pulled his wand out of his hidden shirt-pocket, murmuring a few spells as he tapped the sides and top.

"Really, John, you ought to at least pick up a wrench or some such," Maggie called, opening the oven to check on the pasties. "What on earth would you say if someone walked in here?"

"Maggie, you know I haven't the foggiest on how to use those things. Besides," he added, walking back over and watching her work with a look of absolute adoration, "Now I have time for more important things."

"Mm. Like slacking off, you mean?"

"Call it whatever you like, darling," he murmured, twirling her around and giving her a quick kiss on the lips. She patted his cheek and then let out a little "oh!" of surprise when there came a knock on the door.

Agatha poked her head in. "Maggie, dear, there's a gentleman asking for you out front."

"Be right out." She gave John another peck on the cheek and then followed Agatha out of the kitchen.

"You two are so affectionate," Agatha sighed, shaking her head as the kitchen door closed behind them. "Shame you never had children; I do think you would have made an excellent mother."  
Maggie smiled sadly. "Yes, well… there's some things you just can't help, I suppose. Now where–"

She broke off suddenly, hazel eyes flying wide. Agatha nodded sympathetically. "I know; odd-looking fellow, isn't he? Frightened me half to death when I first saw him, but very charming once you get to talking. Friend of yours?"

"…No," Maggie whispered. "No, not a friend."

Agatha looked at her, surprised. "Maggie?"

"Agatha– get John, quickly."

"Maggie, are you alright?"

"I–" She broke off, very pale. "Fine. Just… get John."

Agatha watched her with worry, but nodded and ducked back into the kitchen. As if in a dream, Maggie stepped out from behind the bar and crossed the pub to the hulking man by the door. Her hands were shaking.

Fenrir Greyback smiled, revealing pointed teeth. "Quickpaw," he greeted. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Maggie's throat convulsed.

"Nice place you got here. Warm, cozy…" He leaned forward and said in a low, sickening tone, "And I bet the food is just _delicious."_

At last, the woman found her courage. "W-what do you want with us?" she whispered, trying hard not to cry.

Greyback didn't answer, instead raising his head and sniffing the air. "What do you say we have a little chat outside?" he suggested calmly. When Maggie didn't reply, he growled so that only she could hear, "Or I can see to it that your little friend's blood gets all over this filthy human hovel. Hm?" Maggie bowed her head with a whimper, and he grinned again. "Good girl."

Back inside the kitchen, John frowned at the waitress, his honey eyes worried. "What do you mean, she's not well?"

"I don't know, honestly. She took one look at the bloke and went pale."

A strange look passed over his scarred face. "What did this bloke look like, Agatha?"

"Quite odd, to be honest. Terribly tall, arms like a silverback gorilla, enough scars to make even you look fresh-faced–"

John brushed past her without a word, startling the waitress. "John? John MacIver, what on earth is going on?"

She followed him out the kitchen door and would have chased after him all the way out of the pub, but a hand caught at her arm. "Look, lady, I said I was in a hurry! Now what exactly is taking that cook of yours so long?!"

John silently thanked the Lord above for rude Americans as he burst out the doors into the night. He looked left and right but, upon seeing no one, lifted his nose to the wind. A second later he caught the scent and hurried around back behind the pub into the alley. "Maggie? Maggie, where are–"

"Shut your mouth, you cur," a voice growled out of the darkness, and four sets of glowing yellow eyes appeared. "Or your bitch here loses her throat."

His heart leapt in his throat, though he managed to keep his voice steady. "Come out and face me like a man, then."

A chuckle echoed off the bricks. "You've got a lot of nerve there, Fang. And you used to be such a good little wolf." The figures moved into the light; John saw that Fenrir Greyback himself was at the forefront, with none other than Cyclops and Brute at his sides. The latter was holding Maggie, one clawed hand digging into her pale neck. John growled, eyes blazing gold.

"Let me make this simple for you, Fang," Greyback said idly, picking at his teeth and leering at the bartender. "You have certain abilities I require. Follow my orders, and I'll repay you by letting you live."

"Never," John snarled.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so hasty. After all, treason against your alpha is punishable by death in my pack. And make no mistake, Fang: no one gets out of my pack."

"You are not our alpha!" Maggie cried in a show of courage. "And you wouldn't be even if you still had the Ring! We- _agh!"_ Brute had dug his claws into her skin, drawing streams of blood.

John stepped forward. "Let her go!" Brute only laughed and dug in hard, causing Maggie to let out another pained cry.

"Your word, Fang," Greyback growled, drawing his attention once more.

He stammered, scrambling for a way to buy time. "W-why do you even want me? I worked for the bloody Department of Transportation; what could I possibly have that you would want?!"

"All in good time." The yellow eyes gleamed. "Our service for your bitch. Do we have a deal?"

John wavered, looking to Maggie. She shook her head, eyes gleaming with tears. "Don't," she whispered. "John, _don't."_

He let out a trembling breath. "I'm sorry, Maggie." Her eyes lit up with hope for a moment, before her husband turned to Greyback and squared his shoulders.

"Tell me what you need me to do."

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry the chapter is so late! You guys have no idea how much of a struggle it was to get it out; the last few parts, especially the last scene with Draco, just would not flow, I had to rewrite it at least four times. Please leave a review to tell me what you thought! Pax et bonum!**


	16. Chapter 16: The Headmistress's Secret

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do I profit from this work produced here.

 **Warnings: mentions of married adult activity, cursing, sexism, mentions of alcoholism, creepy nightmare!Greyback, transformation scene (last two in the final sections).**

 **A/N: Super long chapter for a super long wait. You have been warned.**

* * *

 _"Do you like it?"_

 _A shaking hand was pressed to her mouth; tears filled her eyes. The cottage was perfect: a fire was crackling cheerfully in the hearth, warming the room despite the early-morning chill, and a kettle was already boiling on the stove. Beyond the glass-paned windows, birds chirped in the hedgerows. "Like it?" she whispered, turning to face him. "Oh, Elphi, it's beautiful."_

 _His face split into a broad grin, and he took two long strides forward to envelope her in his strong arms. "I knew you would," he said with a smile. "I picked it out especially for you." She sniffled into his shoulder, and he laughed. "Minnie, don't tell me you're crying!"_

 _"Oh shut up, you great buffoon," the woman croaked, smacking him lightly before burying her face further into his shirt and drawing a deep breath. Even after all these years, her husband's scent could send shivers running down her spine: fresh ink on parchment, his pine-scented aftershave and that indefinable, masculine essence that could only be described as his. "I love you," she mumbled, knowing he'd heard._

 _He kissed her forehead. "And I love you." They remained there for a long moment, simply delighting in each other, before he leaned back and tilted her head up towards his. "So," Elphi said, with that telltale twinkle in his hazel eyes, "What do you say we break this place in?"_

 _She frowned, baffled, and then blushed. "Oh!" He laughed, deep and booming, and she snorted, rolling her eyes. "Honestly, Elphi, we're a bit too old to be spontaneously jumping each other's bones, don't you think?"_

 _"Not for newlyweds!" he protested._

 _Minerva gave him a look that clearly meant "nice try," and he shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "Besides," she reminded him, "I have class in a few hours."_

 _"So?"_

 _"So my students will know!"_

 _"How would they know?"_

 _"They would know," she insisted. "They're teenagers, Elphi; it's like a sixth sense. And I didn't say we wouldn't," she added primly, "I just said, not now."_

 _"Aw, Minnie," he groaned petulantly, but he was grinning, "how am I supposed to go work now?"_

 _"Oh, I'm sure you'll manage," she replied tartly, but her lip was twitched into a smile. Her husband's watch chimed, and she raised an eyebrow. "I believe that's my cue?"_

 _"Alright, alright. I've got a mountain of paperwork to get through, anyhow. Can't imagine how Charlus ever managed it all."_

 _"Hm. I'll be here when you get home." She stood on tiptoe to give him a lingering kiss, and then drew back and turned for the door, brushing out with a flutter of her black cloak into the dawn._

 _"You're a tease, Minerva McGonagall!" Elphi called after her. "A rotten tease!"_

 _Her laughter echoed back down the path as the cottage behind her faded into the morning mist._

* * *

Minerva smiled as her eyes opened, looking into the pitch-darkness. "Elphi," she whispered, reaching across the bed, "Elphi, you'll never imagine what I just–"

Her hand stilled. The bed was cold, and far too small for two. She sat up in the darkness and the low, dull ache settled in.

With a soft sigh, she arose from the bed, wrapping her old tartan bathrobe around her thin frame. Old feet padded across cold stone to the window, and she pushed aside the drapes, undoing the latches to push the glass outward and lean out into the cool night. On hand bracing her at the edge, the other clasping the gold locket hung around her neck, she closed her eyes and breathed in.

 _"It's beautiful, isn't it?" he whispered in her ear, arms intertwining around her from behind, his nose buried into her dark tresses._

 _The witch shook her head. "I hate it." Turning to face him, she asked, "Don't you?"_

Her fingers traced over the ivy designs engraved into the gold. Still, her eyes remained closed.

 _He shook his head. "Not anymore. Not with you." He played with her loose black curls. "With you, it's… like freedom," he admitted, looking beyond her to the world and to the night. "Like I could run to the end of the world, and nothing could ever stop me."_

 _"Why don't you?" she whispered, half-enchanted, half-frightened._

 _He answered the question with a smile and pulled her closer._

Decades later, the widow opened her eyes and looked up to the stars and the waxing moon. The pain in her chest grew sharper, until she felt she wouldn't be able to breathe… but then it passed, leaving behind only the weight of sorrow and the comfort of hope. With a sigh, she checked the clock; it was half-five. No point in going back to bed now.

Alone in the dark, the widow dressed, washed her face and braided back her hair, the black now streaked with silver. Turning again to the window, she pulled the panes shut and, tucking the locket into her collar, faced the growing twilight. Day was soon to dawn.

 _"_ _Gun an ath turas a choinnicheas sinn,_ my love," she murmured with a sigh, and then swept out of the apartment, closing the door tightly behind her.

* * *

"So you guys still aren't talking," Harry deadpanned.

Ron swallowed his bite of oatmeal. "Nope."

"And… neither of you are going to apologize."

"I'll apologize. Just as soon as she apologizes to _me."_

Harry sighed. The Great Hall was, as usual, filled with students cheerfully chattering across the house tables and eating their morning breakfast, yet Hermione and Ron had sat well apart and utterly refused to acknowledge one another's existence. "And you won't even tell me what the row was about?"

"Ask her," said the redhead sourly, stabbing at a blueberry. "She practically shouted it to the whole pub."

"Well whatever she shouted, she's not talking now. Clammed up tighter than you are; said it 'wasn't her place,' or something like that."

His friend looked at him, surprised. "Really?" Harry nodded. Ron frowned and glanced over to where the brunette was in deep conversation with Ginny (and staunchly ignoring him), apparently off-put by the fact that she'd done something nice in this whole fiasco, but then rallied with a stubborn, "Look, it's between us. If she wants to talk about it, she knows where to find me."

"Brilliant," Harry grumbled. "The annual Ron-Hermione standoff; I should've marked my calendar."

They were broken from their conversation by the arrival of the morning mail; owls swooped in overhead, delivering newspapers, packages and letters from home. Harry caught his copy of the _Prophet_ two seconds before the brown Ministry owl dropped it into his marmalade. "Uh-oh," said Ron grimly, flattening the newspaper out on the table. "No way this is good."

The front page bore a three-paneled image of a grim-faced Professor Lupin on one side and a badly scarred Lavender Brown on the other. Between the pair was a shadowy yet discernable picture of Fenrir Greyback leering at the camera, before bounding forward and sending the shot careening to the ground. Above this in large bold letters were the words:

 **The Wolves of Hogwarts: Are Our Children Safe?**

 _ **By: Rita Skeeter**_

 _Hogwarts parents were understandably alarmed upon receiving a private letter just over a week ago from Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, informing them that extra security measures had been implemented after the gruesome remains of a Feral werewolf's hunt had been found in the neighboring forests. Now, thanks to an anonymous interview with a Hogsmead local, the Daily Prophet is grieved to announce that one of the Ferals found to have been prowling in the forest is none other than the vicious werewolf, Fenrir Greyback._

 _Greyback, who escaped capture after the Battle of Hogwarts, is personally responsible for over thirty known murders and more than five dozen individual contaminations; until recently he was head of the most feared werewolf pack in Great Britain, Yr Ysgithr Arian, The Silver Fang, before joining the ranks of Voldemort's followers in the fall of 1997. But although the Headmistress continues to maintain that student safety is her primary concern and the school is now better defended than ever, the approaching full moon makes this writer wonder: is the true danger not outside those hallowed halls, but within?_

 _Readers will recall that, against the wizarding community's better judgment, Headmistress McGonagall has reappointed werewolf Remus Lupin as the school's Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, no doubt missing the irony in her selection. Lupin spent the last several years unemployed after a disastrous end to his first teaching stint in the school year of '93-'94, and has been suspiciously unwilling to deny allegations that he was seen running in Greyback's pack during the height of the Second Wizarding War. Lupin himself was turned by Greyback at a young age, prompting questions of whether his deepest loyalties may still lie with his maker._

 _Another one of Greyback's victims, Lavender Brown, has also returned to the school, despite confirmation from an anonymous source at St. Mungo's that Brown is indeed a full-fledged lycanthrope, subject to transformation at every full moon. As the Headmistress has not outlined any additional measures to separate the werewolf from the rest of her peers, one can only assume that Brown continues to attend classes, eat and even sleep among her fellow students. No word is yet forthcoming on whether the Headmistress intends to allow the two to transform within the castle itself next Monday._

 _The Ministry of Magic classifies werewolves as XXXXX-level Beasts, a category shared by dragons and basilisks, and cautions all readers to remain indoors during the time of the full moon, especially in rural areas near moors or forests. Special care is to be taken regarding any werewolves who have "run wild" in a pack, usually identified by a distinctive brand on the right shoulder, and any sightings of Feral werewolves are to be reported to the Ministry immediately. Regarding the upcoming moon, this writer has only one suggestion: if you hear a howl– run!_

Harry looked up, expression one of utter shock. _"Loyalties may still lie with his maker,"_ he repeated, aghast, "What a load of–"

The bespectacled wizard was cut off by a small explosion from the front of the hall; Professor McGonagall had leapt to her feet, swearing violently in Gaelic, as a blazing Howler set fire to the tablecloth, seemingly unable to contain itself long enough to finish its message. _"–I AM ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED; HOW DARE YOU PUT OUR CHILDREN AT RISK! YOU DARE TO CALL YOURSELF AN EDUCATOR–!"_

Another owl swooped in through the window, dropping a second letter overtop the first, which opened of its own accord: _"PROFESSOR MCGONAGALL! I CANNOT BELIEVE THAT A WOMAN OF YOUR APPARENT INTELIGENCE WOULD GO SO FAR AS TO–"_

 _"–THAT LITTLE BEAST IS NOT SHARING A DORMITORY WITH MY SONS! I EXPECT YOU TO–"_

 _"–AREN'T LIKE US, WOULDN'T FEEL A SHRED OF GUILT IF–"_

By now the students were covering their ears to block out the din, faces screwed up in pain, but it was to no avail: more owls continued to arrive, dropping letter upon letter on the Headmistress's plate and into her goblet. She wasn't the only one; Professor Lupin had to topple out of his seat to avoid two letters that burst into flame mid-air, and even Lavender was being slowly bombarded by the furious post, gaping at it in tearful shock.

 _"–KNOWN THAT YOU'D HIRED ONE OF GREYBACK'S MUTTS FOR YOUR–"_

 _"–HAD ANY SHAME, YOU LITTLE MONGREL, YOU'D LEAVE AND–"_

 _"–GO BACK TO THE MOORS WHERE YOU BELONG, FOUL CUR!"_

And that was when McGonagall pointed her wand to the ceiling with a cry of, _"Implue!"_ A moment later, the student body let out a collective shriek as rain began to pour from the enchanted ceiling, dousing them and effectively putting out the letters, whose protests diminished and died with a final squeak of, _"–touch one hair on my Marsha's head, and you'll have to answer to me!"_

With a mutter of _"prohibere,"_ the rain ceased, and the soaked students were left to stare in shock at the headmistress, who was drenched from head to toe and missing her hat. For a long moment there was silence. Then, through the window there drifted another owl, scarlet letter clutched in its talons.

McGonagall whirled around, dishes exploding on the table and causing the other professors to shriek in surprise. _"My office!"_ she bellowed at the offending owl, pointing her finger in the general direction. _"GO!"_

The bird apparently understood, for it turned right around and flew back out the window. The headmistress pinched the bridge of her nose and took several deep breaths. "To your classes," she ordered quietly, but her voice carried throughout the silent hall. "All of you. Now."

In unison, every one of the three hundred students got to their feet and filed out of the room without uttering a word. When the oak doors had shut behind the last few baffled first-years, Minerva turned to look at the other professors, who were staring at her in stunned silence.

"You'd best get to your classes as well," she sighed. "I'll make sure this gets cleaned up and…" She wasn't able to meet Remus's eyes; her stomach twisted uncomfortably with shame. "…And bring the parents' concerns to the Board."

One by one the other professors left; Remus cast her a sympathetic look and brushed the soot off his robes as he headed for the door. Sprout was the last to leave, catching her by the arm. "Minerva–"

"Just go, Pomona. I'll be alright."

Her friend pursed her lips and squeezed her arm gently, before heading out for the greenhouses. Once she was gone, the aging professor sank into her chair and covered her face with her hand, letting out a long-suffering sigh. She didn't need this today, not before a meeting with the board of governors, which was sure to be full of posturing and bad news. What she wouldn't give to just sit there and let her problems fall onto the shoulders of somebody– _anybody–_ else.

That fantasy was short-lived. The school bells rang out half-seven; she had half an hour to prepare before meeting with the governors. With a groan, McGonagall stood and replaced her hat, drying her robes with a wave of her wand.

She had the sinking feeling that it was going to be a long day.

* * *

"…We have also received notice from the Ministry that the centaur colony is once again filing for ownership of the Black Forest. It's unlikely anything will ever come of it, but still, best to be informed, eh? Don't want to risk a stampede."

Chairman Hargrave smiled and chuckled at his own poor joke, and Minerva let out a deep breath through her nose. "With all due respect, Chairman," she said calmly, though inside her ire was building, "I believe I have explained my position on the matter to the Board numerous times. The centaurs pose no threat to the school, and the forest is in all but name their home; I believe it best we relinquish the land to them without a fight."

"I am in agreement with Professor McGonagall," Governor Theresa Cross spoke up, straightening her hat. "In any case, it's not as if we have any money or time to hire a barrister."

"But the Black Forest has been property of the school since the twelfth century!" exclaimed Governor MacLeod.

"Yes, by law," Minerva countered patiently, as if she weren't explaining this for the fourth time in as many months, "But it was never ours by right. After their aid in the Battle, I truly feel they deserve–"

"Yes, well, feelings aside," Chairman Hargrave interrupted, "I'm afraid we have more to focus on than your, ah, _sensitivities,_ Minerva." Governor Cross began to swell up with offense, noting both the barb and the chairman's use of the headmistress's first name, but Minerva gave her a mild shake of her head. "If you want to make a objective of it, it'll have to be addressed at the next meeting."

"Very well; all in favor to address the centaur colony's claim to the Black Forest at the November meeting?" She glanced around; Governors Cross, Burrell and O'Breen, her usual allies, all raised their hands, in addition to four others. "That's a majority, Chairman."

Hargrave gave her a very patronizing smile. "As you wish, Minerva. Alice, be a dear and put it on the agenda, won't you?"

Governor Alice Burrell, the usual secretary, did so, rolling her eyes at the chairman when he looked away. "Alright, so to more pressing matters: as you can all see from your packets, the school budget is in the red from the repairs. Considering our friend and advisor Mr. Strudwick perished in the War, may he rest in peace, we are left without many options. As such, I'd like to propose a motion to raise tuition by fifteen percent per student."

At this, the headmistress simply couldn't contain herself. _"Absolutely not,"_ said McGonagall sharply, glasses flashing in the light. "There are families who can barely afford to send their children here as it is; raising tuition is out of the picture."

"Well then, Headmistress, what precisely is _your_ suggestion?" said Hargrave with an air of annoyance.

"We find ways to cut spending," she insisted. "We can start with the feasts; half the food on those plates goes uneaten in any case, and it costs massive amounts of gold to have it purchased and prepared."

Hargrave scoffed. "I highly doubt cutting a few roasts from the menu is going to conserve that much money–"

"Quidditch supplies," she interrupted, scanning her list with her finger. "The school policy is to update the team brooms in the next two years; we can put it off for at least another seven. We can also cut the funding for school clubs, the students won't be happy but they'll understand. Holiday decorations can be simplified; professors can fund their own extra-scholastic research; our own paychecks reduced–"

"Yes, and our health benefits with them, no doubt," added one of the other governors dryly.

"This here," she said, tapping a line on the page, "This is a call for funding for a return to the Yule Ball tradition, written in 1994. That, of course, is out; none of our current students even remember the balls, they'd never miss it –"

"Minerva," Hargrave cut her off with a deep sigh, "what exactly is the point of this little show? We all know that finances is not exactly your forte."

The council was immediately divided by this remark; several of the opposing members (Hargrave's personal arse-kissers, in her private opinion) chuckled and glanced to each other as if congratulating themselves. Her usual supporters, on the other hand, shot fierce glares to the chairman as McGonagall flushed red, though they could hardly refute his statement; for all of her intelligence and leadership, Minerva had never had much of a talent for business. Nevertheless, Governor James O'Breen rose to his feet and said sharply, "You're out o' order there, Hargrave. I suggest you be apologizin' to the Professor."

"And I suppose you'll make me?" Hargrave snorted.

"Maybe I might," said James fiercely, taking a step closer to the table, but Minerva spoke up sharply, _"Governor O'Breen._ If you could please take your seat."

The Irishman seemed torn between his loyalties to the headmistress and tearing the chairman a new one, but eventually the former won and he sat down, still red in the face. McGonagall drew a breath and said simply, "While I admit I have little luck with financial matters, I am not lacking in other resources, Chairman. I assure you that by November I will have found an advisor to replace Mr. Strudwick and rework the budget– _without_ raising tuition."

"She has a point, Chairman," Governor Walsh said mildly, a generally neutral voice in the heated discussions. "We really oughtn't be making such important decisions without further consideration. Professor," he said, turning to McGonagall, "Is it possible to keep the school functioning at its current level without increasing our deficit?"

"If we implement a few of the proposed cuts I mentioned, yes– particularly cutting the funding for clubs and suspending school backing for scholastic research, at least for the time being."

"Then I propose we carry out the professor's suggestions and reconsider the matter in November. All in favor?"

Several hands went up– at least nine. "Very well," said Hargrave irritably, "Motion carried. Anything else on the agenda?"

"We did have several very, er, vocal concerns from parents regarding the upcoming transformations of Professor Lupin and Miss Brown," McGonagall added. "I've already set up an interview with a few of the parents and a reporter from the Daily Prophet to quell fears."

"Are you sure that was wise, Professor?" Theresa Cross inquired, frowning. "You know what Rita Skeeter would do to a story like that…"

"Believe you me, Governor Cross," replied the headmistress grimly, "Rita Skeeter isn't getting within a hundred miles of this school again."

"Fine, fine. Anything else?" Hargrave looked around; no one spoke up. "Then I move we adjourn this meeting. All in favor?"

A chorus of "ayes" arose, and he nodded. "Motion carried; meeting adjourned."

The other board members rose to their feet one by one, filing out of the room. As they left, Theresa Cross gave Minerva's shoulder a pat. "Blasted old bigot," she muttered. "Don't let him scare you, Minerva."

The headmistress snorted. "I've dueled the dark lord, Theresa, I think I can handle a fat old fool." She smiled wryly at her friend and said, "But thank you, my dear. Your support is appreciated, truly."

"No trouble. Maybe one of these days we'll let James clock him, eh?"

"Mm. A woman can dream."

Theresa laughed and waved goodbye, donning her pointed violet hat and sweeping out of the room to catch up with Alice. Once the door had shut, McGonagall groaned and dropped her head into her hands again, scanning the papers and sheaves of parchment spread out in front of her.

Budget cuts, nasty rumors, impending full moons, angry parents, dangerous madmen on the loose, a justly-deserved lawsuit from the centaurs, and on top of it all she had to somehow find a skilled financial advisor within the space of two months. And _that_ was in addition to her ordinary duties of managing the staff, disciplining unruly students, supervising the house-elves, ordering food and medical supplies, handling complaints, and overseeing the general safety and security of the castle and its inhabitants. How had Albus ever managed all this and still found time to do research and listen to his chamber music? She hardly had the energy to say her evening prayers by the time she collapsed in her bed every night; the headmistress couldn't remember for the life of her the last time she'd read an actual novel cover to cover.

She gathered the papers with a sigh and left the room, beginning off towards her office on the other side of the castle. As she did so, her mind drifted off to happier times, the decades between the wars. The day her Da had come home from Poland, still in his fatigues, picking her up with a booming laugh and spinning her around in the field behind the cottage. The whole team crowding around her bed in the hospital wing after the final match, Albus doing his best to look disapproving at her rather foolish decision to catch the snitch mid-fall instead of casting a cushioning charm. Her first date, coerced and teased out of her despite her annoyance, with the man she would eventually marry…

* * *

"…Now as the mouse is a vertebrate, it will likely be more complicated to transfigure it into a teacup- _Miss Prewett!"_ The young redheaded woman jumped in her seat and looked over guiltily from where she had been gazing dreamily at a bespectacled Gryffindor boy. "I apologize if my lesson is boring you, but I would be much obliged if you paid attentio- atten-"

The professor's voice faded off in a stutter as she noticed the figure standing in the doorway, just beyond Molly's mop of ginger curls. Elphinstone Urquart grinned back. "Paid attention, Minnie?"

The class turned, startled, and Minerva flushed. "M-Mr. Urquart. What are you doing here?" Although her voice was stern, it jumped a little at the end, as if she were more flustered than angry.

Elphinstone walked inside, looking a tad wounded, though there was a telltale gleam in his hazel eyes. "Is it a crime to want to see my best friend every now and again?"

"We see each other plenty," she hissed, "And I'm in the middle of a lesson!"

"Oh, I'm sure your students don't mind, do you?" This last bit he addressed to the class, who all shook their heads, grinning widely. "See, Minnie? They don't mind."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously, like those of a cat about to swipe. "I generally do not allow people to call me by my Christian name when I am teaching, _Mr. Urquart."_

"Oh, pardon me, _Miss McGonagall,"_ he chuckled. Her green eyes blazed like fire at that. "Well, since you are, as you've said, teaching a lesson, I'll make this brief." He waved his fingers; a bouquet of violets appeared out of thin air. "It would be my greatest honor if you would care to join me for dinner tonight in the village."

There were gasps and giggles throughout the room; Minerva had gone a brilliant shade of red, though from embarrassment or anger, no one could say. "You- you interrupted my class- _Merlin,_ Elphi, I ought to-"

"Oh, go on, Professor!" a girl's voice called happily. She glanced over to see Molly Prewett smiling happily at the two adults. "He brought you flowers!"

"Not every fool who comes bearing violets deserves your attentions, Miss Prewett, something every sensible woman ought to know," said the teacher venomously, glaring at Elphinstone, who could not have looked more pleased with himself.

"Oh, Professor, you _have_ to go!" another student called.

"I bet it'd be fun!"

"He did ask you very sweetly," the bespectacled Gryffindor boy pointed out, straightening his glasses.

"I did not ask for your opinion, Mr. Weasely," Minerva replied, with as much dignity as she could muster despite the rosy hue of her face. "Mr. Urquart, I'm afraid I'll be much too busy this evening, perhaps another time–"

A chorus of _"but Professors!"_ and _"oh pleases!"_ rang out from her students. She sighed, frustrated, and Elphinstone grinned. "C'mon, Minnie," he urged. "Don't turn me down in front of the kids."

She glanced between him, to her students, to the violets in his hands. "…Oh, fine," she growled. "Give me those." She snatched the bouquet from his hands irritably and pointed her wand at his nose. _"One,_ dinner, Elphinstone."

"Ah, Minnie, you're the best-"

"Now get out of my class! Out!" She brandished her wand; a few popping fireworks went off at his feet, making him jump back. "Out!"

He laughed and ran for the door. Just before he left, he called in, "Remember, kiddies: the Brits are great, but you can't go wrong with a feisty Scotswoman!"

Minerva waved her wand, and the oak door slammed shut in his face.

* * *

The headmistress smiled to herself; yes, those had been the good years, when she was as certain as everyone else that the world was at peace and war would not come again.

Her smile faltered with the truth. They should have taken a lesson from the muggles, she thought sadly to herself. So long as there were selfish people, there would always be wars; all one could do was try to prolong the peace as best they could.

 _"Password?"_

She blinked, startled, and realized that she had stopped in front of the griffin-guarded staircase to her office. "Oh, ah, _molecular structure re-management,"_ she replied absently, still lost in the past, and the griffin inclined its head, moving aside. Meticulously straightening the stack of papers as she ascended the staircase, mentally lamenting her arthritis and stiffening joints, she began a precursory consideration of who would possibly be willing and capable of rewriting the school budget. It was a seemingly unresolvable conundrum: anyone with the skill to do so would indubitably already be employed in a much more profitable occupation. _Look at you, Minerva,_ she scolded herself fiercely, rounding the tower steps, _all of sixty-three years old and you still let your temper get the better of you! Still, there was nothing else for it; fifteen percent! Why, at that rate, we'll lose so many students we'll only increase the deficit; can't imagine what that buffoon was thinking…_

Pausing her internal monologue, she shifted the papers to one hand as she opened the door with the other. A moment later, she stopped, unable to do anything but stare.

Every square inch of her office was covered with a fine layer of black soot.

* * *

"–Now as you can see from the diagram, not only is the stunning charm is a very useful spell–"

 _Tap-tap-tap._

"–Its physical drain on the caster is almost negligible–"

 _Tap-tap-tap._

"–Making it particularly valuable in a dueling situation, where of course you'll want to conserve as much energy as you can–"

 _Tap-tap-tap._

"Oh, for the love of Merlin!" Professor Lupin exclaimed, breaking his lecture to pace over to the window, where a rather insistent owl was continuously pecking at the glass, a smoking howler in its talons. "I told you, just take it to my office! Go on, shoo!"

The owl hooted adamantly in reply, hovering in the same spot. Lupin sighed and turned to the students. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "You might want to cover your ears."

The fifth-years did so, watching as he opened the window with mixed curiosity and apprehension. The owl swooped inside and dropped the howler on the floor, before dashing out the window in as hasty an escape as it could manage. Two seconds later, the letter burst into flame:

 _"NOW LISTEN TO ME, YOU DEPRAVED, BLOODTHIRSTY FREAK!"_

Lupin sighed again and ran a hand through his graying hair.

 _"I DON'T KNOW HOW YOU MANAGED TO CON THE HEADMISTRESS INTO THINKING YOU'RE HOUSE-TRAINED, BUT YOU'RE NOT FOOLING ME! TARGETING INNOCENT CHILDREN FOR YOUR ALPHA; YOU OUGHT TO BE PUT DOWN!"_

The students looked at each other uncomfortably. Professor Lupin watched the howler smoke and rage, waiting with the patience of a saint for it to finish.

 _"IF THE MINISTRY HAD ANY STOMACH THEY'D TAKE CARE OF YOUR KIND PROPERLY ! YOU'VE GOT NO BUSINESS AMONG ORDINARY FOLK, AND IF YOU'VE GOT AN OUNCE OF DECENCY, YOU'LL RUN BACK TO THE REST OF YOUR FILTHY PACK BEFORE SOMEONE PUTS A SILVER BULLET THROUGH YOU, YOU UGLY CUR!"_

The howler burnt out, leaving behind a pile of black cinders. Lupin raised an eyebrow and cleared his throat. "Well. That was rather colorful." Several of the students let out nervous giggles, and he banished the smoking ash with a wave of his wand. "Back to the stunning charm _,_ yes? Now, the correct wand movement is just a simple downwards strike. Let me see, now– yes, Mr. Crispin, just like that; show the rest of the class, if you please…"

By the time class was over, Lupin had dismissed two more owls to his office and listened to a third bellow in muffled tones through the window as the screeching owl dropped it, flaming, to the green below. Beneath his calm exterior, a hot rage was simmering; he gathered his notes and supplies into his briefcase, before leaving the classroom, not bothering to lock the door behind him.

All the ways back to the apartment, the internal debate continued. _They're_ _ignorant,_ the reasonable, peaceable side of him argued. _They don't know better._

 _That's no excuse,_ his indignant side snapped. _What right do they have to treat me like this? To treat anyone like this?_

 _They're afraid of you._

 _I have done nothing wrong!_

 _But they don't know that. To them, you're an unknown danger, possibly every bit as violent and dangerous as Greyback himself._

 _They accused me of being his pack! As if I haven't fought for them, risked my life for them, defended their children when he would have slaughtered them without mercy!_

 _And that you know this, that the people you love know this, is that not what truly matters?_

 _So I have no right to be angry? Don't I deserve justice?_

 _Of course you do. But you must be careful that your anger does not become hatred._

 _I'm not seeing much of a difference,_ he snarled internally, knowing all the while that it was a lie.

 _Yes, you do. Breathe, Remus. Cool your blood, control your passions…_

He'd reached his apartment door. _"Fiddlestick Flounces,"_ Remus growled at the door, trying not to scowl.

The first thing he noticed when he entered the apartment was that the usually clean table and floor were covered with small piles of ash; black Tonks-sized footprints had tracked themselves over the stone and into the kitchen. The vase of flowers had been knocked over, the lilacs a charred mess. Remus stared down at the mess, his internal battle raging between exhausted resignation and full-blown fury.

"Remus!" He looked up to see his wife and son come out of the nursery; Teddy was red-eyed, as if he'd recently been crying, and the witch's hair was a mousy brown. Both of their faces and arms were smudged with soot; the cloth of Dora's shirt was seared through with small holes. For a moment, he was confused. Why had Dora been receiving his letters?

Then it clicked.

He didn't even realize what had happened before the heavy oak table crashed over on its side, the legs snapping like toothpicks. Teddy cried; Dora shrieked: "Remus!"

"IT'S NOT FAIR!" he roared, eyes flashing like gold, blood pounding in his ears. "IT'S NOT– _BLOODY–_ FAIR, DORA!" He grabbed hold of the nearest thing he could find, a small porcelain figurine on the bookshelf, and threw it against the wall. Teddy wailed. "AFTER EVERYTHING WE'VE DONE FOR THEM– EVERYTHING WE RISKED FOR THEM–"

"Remus, stop–"

A chair hit the wall and shattered into splinters. "WELL I'VE HAD ENOUGH! FIGHTING FOR THEM, DYING FOR THEM, AND WHAT DO THEY CARE?! _NOTHING!_ NOTHING BUT AN ANIMAL, A _BEAST,_ THAT'S ALL I'LL EVER BE TO THEM AND _I'VE HAD ENOUGH!"_

The man stopped, breathing heavily; the baby was hiccupping out sobs; his wife was staring at him with shocked, tear-filled eyes. Remus pinched the bridge of his nose. "I've had enough, Dora," he choked out. "I'm tired of being the bigger man. I've had enough."

"Oh, Remus," the auror whispered, walking forward, "You don't mean that, you– ah…" She stopped suddenly, eyes focusing on something over his shoulder, and he turned.

Lavender Brown stared back, wide-eyed, two corked globe-vials in hand.

"L-Lavender," Remus stammered, "I–" He glanced around the apartment; the place was in a shambles. "I…"

 _"Reparo,"_ said Dora hastily, waving her wand; the table, chair and figurine immediately leapt back together. Remus was utterly ashamed of himself; rarely did he lose control like that, rarer still in the presence of his family. _Never_ would he have done so in full view of a student, let alone this particular student. He couldn't think of anything to say.

Thankfully, he didn't have to start the conversation. Lavender held out one of the vials and stammered, "P-Professor Slughorn– he told me to give this to you. Um, it's Wolfsbane."

"Oh." He accepted it, still red. "Er, thank you, Lavender."

"It's fine." She didn't meet his eyes. "Er, I suppose I'd better be going–"

"Oh, nonsense," Dora broke in from behind, startling both. "I was just about to make some lunch; would you like to eat with us?"

"Er– a-alright," the girl stuttered, stepping inside. "Um, thank you, Mrs. Lupin."

Dora waved her hand. "It's nothing. Remus, could I have your help in the kitchen?"

He followed her wordlessly into the adjoined room, feeling much like a dog with its tail between its legs. "Dora," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, "I'm sorry– I don't know what–"

"You scared the daylights out of Teddy," she snapped under her breath. "You scared the daylights out of _me."_

Merlin, he felt awful. "Dora- I'd _never_ hurt you or Teddy, you know that–"

"That's not what I meant." She turned to look him in the eyes, a fierce glint in her own. "You've _had enough?_ You're tired of _being the bigger man?_ I don't think I have to tell you who you sound like there, Remus."

The werewolf shook his head, dropping his eyes. "No. You don't."

"And in front of her? Nice job. Who else does she have to look up to, huh? How many other werewolves does she know? I'd be willing to bet about, oh, _one._ And if you give her an example like that, what's she going to think?"

"I know. I'm sorry–"

"I'm not the one you have to apologize to," Dora whispered sharply. "I'll give you your privacy, but you're going to get back out there and explain what just happened."

Remus swallowed and nodded, shame-faced. His wife's eyes softened, and she patted his cheek. "I forgive you. Now go on."

He bit his lip and walked out of the kitchen. Lavender was still sitting at the table, tracing her finger along the ridges in the oak. "Er… so," he began uncomfortably. The girl looked up and went a bit pink. He gestured to the table. "May I?"

Lavender nodded hesitantly; Remus took his seat and wondered how to begin. Casting around for ideas, he noticed a particular book just inside her schoolbag. "Doing a bit of reading?" he inquired lightly.

"What? Oh." Lavender glanced down, fiddling with her hands uncomfortably. "Er, yes…"

"I see you've been perusing Sister Edevane's book," he said with a nod to the tome, which was deep blue and bore the rather uninspired title of, _A Medical Journal of Lycanthropy and Its Effects._ It was one of the most honest and unprejudiced texts available, being strictly medical in purpose and written in the early 1900's by Sr. Ciwa Edevane, a Healer for St. Mungo's who had contracted lycanthropy herself while tending to a transformed patient. "A very good choice, I must say."

"It's rather… blunt," Lavender mumbled, her interlaced fingers locking tight.

"She doesn't sugarcoat, no," replied Lupin with a grimace. "May I see it?"

She handed him the book without a word. The professor opened the page instinctively to that which was the most viewed in his own copy, a detailed, moving illustration of the transformation, from start to finish. He flipped through several more pages, catching glimpses of anatomical diagrams, hormone charts, and even chemical equations.

Closing the book, Lupin looked up and said quietly, "It makes it a bit less terrifying, doesn't it? To know what it is that happens to you." Lavender didn't respond, staring down at her feet. "I noticed didn't show up to class this morning," he tried again. She shrugged. "I don't blame you."

Surprised, the girl looked up. "You're not mad at me?"

"Hardly. I was half-inclined to do the same thing." She snorted, and Remus smiled sadly. "Bit of a nasty surprise, wasn't it?"

"A nasty surprise? It was humiliating!" she exclaimed. "Before it was just the people here who knew, now the whole world knows I'm some sort of – of _freak!"_

"You are not a freak," the professor countered sternly.

"I grow fur!" Lavender cried. "And a tail! I want to _eat_ people, Professor! What, what part of that _doesn't_ make me a freak?" A small sob escaped her mouth, and she turned away, wiping her eyes.

"Lavender–"

"I was afraid of you," she choked out. "After I heard about you, back in third year, I was afraid. I thought, _'He seemed so nice. How could someone so nice be such a monster?'"_ She gasped another sob and buried her head in her hands. "And now, everyone sees me the same way!"

"Oh, child…"

"I hate them, Professor," she spat through her tears. "I _hate_ them! I wish they'd all just leave me alone!"

The words struck the man like a slap across the face. "You mustn't say that," he breathed.

"Why not? Don't you?" She looked up through her tears, gold eyes pleading, and he knew what he had to say.

"…I'm angry," he admitted. "And… as you just saw, I'm not handling it particularly well." The girl choked out a laugh, and he smiled sadly. "But no, Lavender, I don't hate them… or at least, I'm trying not to."

"Why? You said it yourself; why try to be the bigger person, when people treat us like this for no reason?"

Remus let out a deep sigh, knowing he had no choice but to face up to the truth himself. "…Because it's the right thing to do, Lavender," he replied tiredly. "Because nothing they could do to us ever excuses us from our own moral obligations."

"But the things they called you," she whispered, "those horrible lies–"

"Are lies. Everyone has to face themselves in the mirror, Lavender; at the end of the day, I have to answer to my own conscience, not to the _Daily Prophet._ Rita Skeeter will never be able to do as much harm to us as she will in the end be doing to herself."

"But–"

"And as for you," he added, before she could argue, "you, my dear, are a bright, kind, talented young witch with a wonderful future ahead of you. Don't let a few two-bit reporters frighten you into hiding from it."

Lavender fell silent, digesting this advice. Lupin smiled slightly, and then nodded to the potion. "You ought to drink that now. Believe me, it's worse cold."

The younger werewolf looked down to the vial hesitantly. "…Do you ever not want to?" she said, so quietly it was almost inaudible. "Keep your mind, I mean. Do you ever just want to be an animal?"

Lupin's expression softened. "Because if you're an animal you can't feel like a monster?" Lavender nodded miserably, and he admitted, "Yes, sometimes. More so when I was younger. But Lavender, it's not worth it. Free will comes with responsibility, an obligation to choose between right and wrong. It's a gift and a burden, but it's also part of what makes us human. And whatever form you might take, my dear, whatever chemical processes might affect your mind under the full moon, whatever hurtful, awful things people may say… you are, without a doubt, utterly and entirely human."

"You're certain?" the girl whispered.

"Absolutely," he replied, and she managed a watery smile. Remus took his vial in hand and uncorked the top; a swirl of blue smoke wafted out, smelling strongly of aconite. Both of them wrinkled their noses. "Well. Bottoms up?"

Lavender winced, but uncorked her own potion willingly. They clinked the vials together and down the mixture in a few gulps, before shuddering in unison. "Urgh," she mumbled, setting it down. "I never get used to that." She glanced over to the kitchen where Dora seemed to be making sandwiches with one hand, holding Teddy on her hip with the other. "Doesn't your baby need one?"

The professor shook his head. "We decided against it this month. Wolfsbane can't really help an infant, and as it clashes rather poorly with pain potions…"

"Oh, I see."

"Sandwiches!" said Dora cheerfully, entering with the platter balanced on her free hand. Remus stood expectantly and caught her just as she tripped over the rug, setting the plate down smoothly on the table. Lavender giggled. "Thanks, love," his wife said with a grin, kissing him on the cheek.

The three ate lunch together, chatting pleasantly; Lavender even worked up the courage to ask him about a few of the things she'd come across in Edevane's book, which Remus answered as best he could. When the clock struck one, the girl excused herself, thanked the professor and left, in much a more cheerful mood than when she came in.

"See?" Dora said smugly, once they were sure the student was gone. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Remus grimaced. "It wasn't the most pleasant conversation I've ever had, either." He glanced to his wife guiltily. "Dora… I really am sorry–"

"I understand. If it's been a long day for me, I can't imagine what it's been like for you. And I said I forgave you, didn't I?"

"I would never hurt you," he repeated, anxious to make sure she understood; he knew how frightening his abrupt bursts of anger, however infrequent they were, could seem to a non-lycanthrope. "Not ever, Dora. You know that, don't you?"

"Of course I do." She pecked him again on the cheek. "I'll put Teddy down for his nap; you go on to class."

He smiled at her and gave Teddy a quick kiss on the forehead, before Dora disappeared into the nursery. After taking a few settling breaths, Remus paused, and then made his way over to the nearest bookshelf.

From within the stacks of books he pulled out his own battered blue volume. With a sigh, he opened the medical journal and flipped through aimlessly, before landing on a drawing of a female hand, slim and pale. As he watched, the hand arched, the finger-pads thickened, and the thumb shrank upwards into a bony protrusion near the paw's joint. Remus shivered and rubbed his own hand as phantom pain tingled along his bones. _One more week._

Shutting the book, rolled his shoulders and checked his watch. With a yelp he grabbed his briefcase and dashed out of the room, heading for the third floor.

* * *

The headmistress's office was silent, save for the persistent ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Minerva glanced up at the man across from her as she dipped her quill in the ink. "More tea?"

"No, thank you," Remus replied evenly. He seemed calm, but the woman could see the worry in his eyes. She nodded and returned to the letter she was drafting, inspecting it for errors.

The clock continued to tick for several more seconds, and then let out a lilting tune, followed by six sweet chimes as it tolled the hour. McGonagall drew a breath through her nose. "Should be any minute now."

"Mm." Remus took another sip of his tea. Neither said anything more.

Another two minutes or so passed, before the fireplace flared emerald, causing both to start and look up. Out of the hearth stepped a tall, strawberry-blonde man and a petite black-haired woman, the former still in his navy work-robes. "Mr. and Mrs. Cattermole," said McGonagall courteously, rising to shake their hands, "Thank you so much for coming. Can I offer you some tea?"

"Yes, please. Thank you for having us," the husband replied, as McGonagall set about pouring them cups. "Is the reporter here yet?"

"Not quite; it shouldn't be long." The headmistress nodded to indicate Remus and said, "As I'm sure you've guessed, this is Professor Lupin, our Defense instructor."

Remus extended his hand, and she counted it a good sign that both hesitated only a moment before returning the gesture. "Pleasure to meet you," he greeted them warmly. "You're Maisie's parents, aren't you?"

"Er, yes…"

"She's a delightful student, quite bright; you must be very proud."

"We are," said Mrs. Cattermole with a smile, clearly a bit more comfortable with the werewolf than her husband. "We were ever so surprised with her being sorted Ravenclaw, what with both of us being Hufflepuffs, but she's always been clever, if quiet."

"Yes, I do wish she'd speak up more often; I think the other students could really benefit from her insights. Her last essay on gnomes was very well-researched, particularly for an eleven year old."

Their conversation was cut off as the fireplace blazed green again, heralding the entrance of a man who was undoubtedly the reporter. Minerva raised an eyebrow, eyeing the white fedora adorned with a slip bearing the word _PRESS_ and the violet pinstripe suit, complete with a white kerchief and a black briefcase slung over his shoulder. "Mr. Darby; thank you for coming."

"Oh, no trouble, no trouble!" the man exclaimed with all the eagerness of a puppy who'd been promised a treat, setting his briefcase down on her desk (Minerva had to physically restrain herself from raising the other eyebrow) and retrieving from within a bulky antique camera. "Now, let's get this shown on the road, eh? How's about we start with a nice picture– all of you, crowd around there, that's it– eh, well," he said, frowning down at the photo as it developed. "We'll try again afterwards, shall we?"

After offering the reporter tea and allowing him to set up his materials (he seemed to be taking important notes on one pad, while another hands-free quill was copying down their words verbatim as they spoke), the headmistress decided to begin the questioning. "Mr. and Mrs. Cattermole, as you can no doubt imagine I've received a frankly exorbitant amount of correspondence pertaining to the article in this morning's _Daily Prophet,_ of which yours was one of the most polite _._ I would first and foremost like to thank you for having approached the situation in a manner befitting adults, rather than subjecting my staff and students to public verbal abuse."

"Naturally," Mrs. Cattermole replied, inclining her head.

"Now, perhaps if you could explain the nature of your concerns?"

"Well– please, don't misunderstand," said Mr. Cattermole uncomfortably, glancing towards Remus, "We're not prejudiced people, and we certainly don't mean to come off that way. We've been the victims of unfair discrimination ourselves…"

"I'm muggle-born," Mrs. Cattermole explained, "And last year we had to flee the country. So you see, it's not that we mean to be unfair to Professor Lupin himself, as it were, only we have some concerns about… containment."

"You mean during the full moon," Remus asserted, and the pair nodded awkwardly. "Headmistress, if I might take this one?"

"By all means."

Remus nodded, turning to face the couple. "First off, I want to assure you that no one takes the reality of these risks more seriously than I do," he began. "I would not wish this curse on anyone, least of all an innocent child. Regarding the issue of containment, you can rest assured that I will be primarily under the effect of the Wolfsbane potion, which allows me to keep my human mind during the full, and that I will be in a safe, enclosed environment."

"Which is?"

"The Shrieking Shack."

Mrs. Cattermole's eyes went wide. "The Shrieking Shack? That place is falling to bits!"

"On the outside it does look that way; it helps ward off unwanted visitors. But inside it is probably one of the most structurally sound buildings in Great Britain, believe me. There are wards set up to prevent anyone from getting too near to it, as well, and my wife, the chief auror, will be keeping guard to ensure no one else comes into contact with me during that time."

"And the girl? Will she be changing there, too?"

"The school did not feel it appropriate to have a student transform in the same location as a teacher, given the nature of the change," McGonagall interjected. "However, we have found a secure location here within the castle–"

"You mean Miss Brown will be transforming inside the school?" the reporter interrupted, eyes wide with interest.

McGonagall nodded. "We have been blessed by the rediscovery of Hufflepuff's Hold, more commonly known as the Room of Requirement. The Hold is enchanted to conform to the needs of the user; in this case, the room itself will be sealed from sunset until daybreak."

"But if the user were a werewolf, wouldn't the room _un_ seal itself so that they could escape and attack?" he pressed.

Mr. and Mrs. Cattermole both gawped at him, shocked at the forwardness of the question; Remus turned red at the cheeks. "Actually, Mr. Darby, like all the castle enchantments, the Room's first and foremost loyalty is to the true headmaster," McGonagall replied coolly. "If I order it to remain shut, nothing save the physical demolishment of the castle could force it to open again. Moreover, I myself will be patrolling the corridor beside the room that night as an added but unnecessary precaution."

"And you're not worried about your own safety?" Mrs. Cattermole inquired.

"Animagi are immune to the bite, and even if by some stretch of the imagination Miss Brown did manage to escape, I'm fairly certain I'd be able to handle a mid-sized werewolf without too much trouble," the witch replied, without batting an eye. The rest of the room glanced around at this statement, not a little intimidated. "So as you can see, we have three layers of defenses to protect the students; I daresay that Professor Lupin and Miss Brown would pose _more_ danger if they were to transform anywhere else."

The husband and wife glanced at each other, and then Mrs. Cattermole nodded, apparently satisfied with this explanation. "The other thing we wanted to ask," she added, and her expression grew nervous, "were about the– well, the frankly quite frightening allegations in the article. Is it true?" she asked Remus directly. "Are you one of Greyback's? Did you run in his pack?"

Remus glanced uncertainly to McGonagall, who gave him a small nod. "Well… I suppose it was bound to come out sooner or later," the man sighed. "Yes, it was Fenrir Greyback who turned me, but the accusations that I might have any loyalty to him for it are utterly ridiculous. In answer to your second question, I did infiltrate Greyback's pack under orders from Dumbledore, to spy on their movements and try to convince other werewolves against following him and Voldemort. But I swear to you, I never harmed anyone while I was with the pack, intentionally or otherwise."

"And you would never try to harm the students?" Mrs. Cattermole pressed.

"Never," Remus vowed. "I would defend them with my life."

"And what about Greyback?" the reporter interjected, earning him an annoyed look from everyone, which he ignored. "Aren't you worried that he might be targeting you? Could the school be in danger?"

A nervous prickle ran down Remus's spine at the question, but he answered evenly, "The Black Forest and surrounding area has been carefully monitored by the aurors; believe me, if there were any sign that Greyback has returned since, I would have already left."

"The school has also taken a number of safety precautions; no one under-age is allowed off the premises," McGonagall added. "Parents can rest well assured that, as their students are not getting out, likewise Fenrir Greyback is not getting _in."_

The reporter looked a bit put-out by this news, no doubt expecting something juicier than reasoned defenses and thorough planning, but restrained himself to merely scribbling down a few more notes on his pad. The headmistress turned back to the parents. "Well, if there are no more questions…?"

"Actually, I- I do have one more," said Mrs. Cattermole hesitantly, looking to Remus. "You… you must have known how dangerous it was, didn't you? Going undercover like that."

Remus blinked. "Yes, of course. I knew the dangers before I accepted my mission; they were never hidden from me."

"Then why did you? Why go to so much trouble to protect people who hate you, without ever knowing you?"

The office was dead silent, save for the mad scribbling of the reporter's quill.

"…I went because I knew I was fortunate," Remus said at last, very softly. "I was raised among ordinary wizards, raised by parents who loved me very dearly, who taught me right from wrong. Those poor souls who ran in his pack, so many of them had been there since their childhood. They knew no better than to do what they did. Others had fled to the wilderness as a last resort, rejected by society, terrified of harming anyone else the way they had been harmed… I wanted to help them, and to prevent the same fate from befalling others, if I could. I went because it was the right thing to do."

Again, silence fell. Even the reporter looked impressed. After a moment or two, McGonagall cleared her throat. "I believe that's all the time we have for today. Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Cattermole, Mr. Darby."

"Our pleasure, Professor. Good day."

"Yes, thank you."

The couple headed for the hearth; Mr. Darby followed, gathering his quills and camera back into the briefcase. Once they were gone, McGonagall turned to Lupin and said frankly, "Well, that went better than I expected."

"Much better," Remus agreed. "And the reporter wasn't too terrible, either, if a bit insensitive." He stood with his own battered briefcase and glanced to the grandfather clock; it was twenty after six. "I should be going. Dora's making dinner tonight and if I'm not there, she's bound to light something on fire."

McGonagall snorted. "Most likely the food." Remus laughed at that, and she allowed a moment's small smile before she added, "Remus, I do have a favor to ask you."

"Oh?"

"I'm paying a visit to a prospective student tonight, a small family just immigrated from Italy; I was hoping you could accompany me."

"Me?" Remus was surprised. "I thought the deputy head usually handled the student visits?"

"Usually, yes, but this is a… special case. The child in question will need special considerations, and I thought your presence would help reassure them I mean no harm."

"The child is a werewolf?"

"She's a vampire."

Remus dropped his briefcase. "A vampire?" he repeated, wide-eyed.

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Come now, Remus; don't tell me that you, of all people, are frightened of a mere sickly child?"

He flushed, embarrassed, and quickly picked up his case. "No. No, of course not."

The headmistress's face softened, and she continued, "The girl's name is Maria Antonelli, parents Giovanni and Lucia Antonelli. Very old Italian vampire family; probably one of the first in their country.

"Why have they come to England?"

"Their village was destroyed six months ago. No doubt you know that the Italians are considered somewhat of a rogue sect among the vampires; they refuse to attack humans or use dark magic." McGonagall sighed. "Apparently a group of visiting Albanian vampires took offense to their way of life and attacked; what villagers survived were scattered throughout the countryside. This particular family had gone to Rome on holiday and was spared, but of course they were traumatized by their loss… in the end, they decided to leave Italy altogether."

"Attacked? How awful," Remus murmured. He recalled the living conditions of life among the pack, squatting in caves and abandoned farmhouses. It could hardly be called a 'village.' Anger boiled in his blood; how low would one have to stoop to attack a happy, peaceful town of innocent people who weren't harming anyone? Who had committed no other crime other than refusing to give into the baser urges of their illness? "I promise you, Professor, I will do whatever you need of me."

"Thank you, Remus. I want to confirm with them that they'll be comfortable with your presence; you know better than I that werewolves and vampires haven't always gotten on…"

"Naturally. Well, I'll keep my evening open."

They bade their goodbyes, and then Remus disappeared out the office door in search of what was, hopefully, an un-burnt dinner. Minerva set once again to writing out letters, pausing a moment to dip her quill in the ink. _Dear Mr. and Mrs. Antonelli…_

* * *

"Hermione, can't you at least just _talk_ to him?"

"If Ronald wants to talk, he knows where to find me," the witch said coolly, reaching for a book just above her head. "He can apologize any time he likes."

Harry let out a noise of frustration. He'd been trying to run interference all day between his two friends, and had at last cornered the witch in the library, only to find that Hermione was as adamant as ever to hold out for the redhead's repentance. "This is Ron we're talking about, Hermione. Ron, our best friend? The single most stubborn bloke alive? He's not _going_ to apologize."

"Well, then, he can count out my help with his transfiguration essay," she replied without batting an eye. "And frankly, Harry, I'm surprised you're taking his side!"

"I'm not taking anyone's side!" he exclaimed, exasperated. "I'm just tired of my two best friends always being at each other's throats!"

 _"Shh!"_ Both looked over to see Madame Pince giving them very nasty looks. Hermione blushed and turned back to Harry, crossing her arms.

"I'm not going to apologize because I haven't done anything wrong," she whispered fiercely. "And Ron knows it, too! Don't give me that look; you don't even know what the fight was about!"

"Right! Because neither of you will _tell_ me!"

"Because it's none of your _business!"_ Harry opened his mouth, but she cut him off. "This is between Ron and me, Harry, so if you don't mind, I'll thank you to kindly _butt out."_

"Fine, but don't expect me to help. I'm tired of playing messenger; the last seven years were enough."

Hermione sniffed as if to say, _you've had just as many rows with him as I have,_ but merely retrieved another book from the shelf and checked the library clock. "It's nearly seven, I have to go."

"Where to?"

"I need to talk with Professor McGonagall about my thesis. See you at dinner?"

"Yeah, ducking pointed comments," he grumbled. Hermione gave him a look before heading for the checkout desk.

The witch's shoes clicked across the stone floors as she made her way from the library to the headmistress's office, the scowl on her face fading as she slipped into deep thought. The truth was, she had been dying to talk to Ron all week; the pair had grown rather close over the summer, supporting each other through the grief and difficulties of the post-war wizarding world, and their sudden falling out had been more difficult than she'd anticipated. Hermione didn't _want_ to lose Ron, but she couldn't help being angry with him; she simply couldn't understand _why_ he refused to see things her way. It was clear that George needed help, plain as day, and Ron knew it as well as she did; he'd expressed as much to her when she'd first found one of the letters, pleading with his older brother to find some other way of handling his loss. George had never replied, neither to that letter nor any of the others.

Not many people knew Ron as well as she did, except maybe Harry, and Harry had his own problems to worry about at the moment; Hermione knew that of the three, she had lost the least in the war. Her small family was safe, her dearest friends had all survived. And so it was she who saw with clearest eyes as the months of bearing other people's burdens had begun to wear the young wizard down. He had grown even thinner than usual, and was often tired in class, claiming that he'd been up late doing homework when she knew full well he'd been writing and rewriting another letter, trying to find the right words to help a brother who seemed intent on dissociating himself from his family altogether. She knew why he didn't want to tell his parents– no doubt he didn't want to burden them with any more suffering– but Hermione knew that this was exactly the sort of thing Arthur and Molly would have _wanted_ to know.

Hermione huffed, re-shouldering her book-bag; she had just been trying to help! Ron knew she was right, he just didn't want to admit it. Well, she wasn't going to apologize to him for being right, and she certainly wasn't going to apologize after he'd been such an utter prat. If Ron wanted to make up, _he_ could come find _her._

 _"Password?"_

She jumped and reached for her wand, before realizing she'd been about to walk headlong into the griffin guardian in front of the staircase to the headmistress's office. "Oh, er– I-I don't know, actually– um, _lemon drops?"_

The griffin gave her a very unimpressed look.

"Couldn't you please just tell Professor McGonagall I'm here?"

The griffin inclined its head. A moment later, it spoke: _"She says you may enter."_

"Thank you." She waited until the guardian had shifted aside, and then hurried up the stairs to the tower at the top. She knocked on the door and then waited until she heard a voice call, "Come in!"

The witch pushed the door open. Professor McGonagall was sitting at her desk, frowning intently at a number of official-looking documents. "Miss Granger," she said, sparing a moment to glance up. "What a pleasant surprise; I wasn't expecting to see you."

"I hope I wasn't interrupting anything," she apologized.

"You have, and I couldn't thank you more," the headmistress said tartly, but with a twitch to her mouth; Hermione laughed. "Do come in; take a seat. Tea?"

"No, thank you."

"Very well." She straightened her papers and set them aside, leaning forward in the desk and peering at the young woman through her square spectacles. "How may I help you, Miss Granger?"

"It's about my thesis, actually," said Hermione, pulling out one of the books from her satchel. "I was trying to decide who I wanted to write my paper on, seeing as I wanted to research the career of someone who'd sat on the Wizengamot, and then I thought… well, why not write about you?"

McGonagall blinked, surprised. "Oh?"

"I know you must be terribly busy, but I was hoping you might be able to help me," the student continued, flipping open to the page which bore an image of a much younger Minerva McGonagall in plum robes. "It would be so much better than getting my information out of a dusty old book."

Years later, Minerva would never be quite sure why she did it. Perhaps it was simply the accumulation of the day's events; perhaps it was that she trusted the girl and wanted to see if Hermione Granger would piece together the puzzle that some of the most brilliant legal minds of the twentieth century had ingenuously overlooked. Perhaps it was simply a feeling, a sense that told her it was time. Whatever the reason, Minerva McGonagall, quite apart from agreeing to the girl's wish, replied frankly, "As flattered as I am, Miss Granger, I have to say I think it would be more beneficial for you to study the career of a wizard who achieved his seat on the courts through the ministry channels instead of beyond them, considering your aspirations."

"Oh." Her shoulders slumped. "Yes… I thought you might say that. Well, thank you anyway, Professor." She made to put away the book, but before she could the headmistress interjected:

"I did not mean to say, Miss Granger, that I wouldn't help you. In fact, I would like to suggest to you another candidate: are you familiar with the name of Elphinstone Urquart?"

Hermione's eyes widened. "Your husband?"

McGonagall granted her a small smile. "Precisely. He sat the courts far longer than I did, and was present for some of the most significant cases regarding muggleborn and being rights. I think you would find his career particularly fascinating– and of course, it would be my honor to give you any information you might need."

"That would be wonderful!" Hermione breathed. "Oh, thank you, Professor!" She quickly retrieved the book, flipping through the pages until she came one bearing the late man's name. Beneath it was an image of a silver-haired man with a strong jaw and beard. "This is him, isn't it?"

McGonagall glanced down and huffed. "Oh, that's a terrible picture; he looks so old. Here." She reached up to her neck and drew out an old-style locket from beneath the collar of her robes, which she clicked open and handed to Hermione.

Inside was a black-and-white photograph, hardly the size of her thumb. As she watched, a pair of friends laughed out at her from the picture: one a young, bespectacled witch, eyes alight with joy, winter cloak billowing in the snowy wind; the other a slightly older wizard, chuckling as he caught her pointed hat before it could blow away.

"That was taken in London, right after I started working here at the school," McGonagall informed her. "I'd gone for a visit to see a few of my friends from the Ministry, and Elphi suggested we take a walk through the city. Dreadfully cold, but the snow was lovely."

"Were you close even then?"

"We were. He was my dearest friend."

"Is that when you fell in love with him?"

McGonagall glanced at her, surprised. Hermione went red. "Sorry. I suppose that's personal, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is." She took the locket back in hand and re-clasped it around her neck. "No, Elphi and I were friends for years before either of us realized we were interested in the other. He became infatuated long before I did, as well, so we married rather late in life."

"It's a beautiful picture," said Hermione gently. "You look very happy together."

McGonagall nodded with a sad smile. "We were." She noticed that the girl glanced down, her expression falling into a frown, and tilted her head. "Miss Granger? Is everything alright?"

"Hm? Oh– fine, everything's fine…"

"Really? Because I've heard from at least two of my professors that you've been on rather chilly relations with a certain Mr. Weasley." Hermione glanced up, startled, and the headmistress tactfully added, "Of course, it's none of my business."

"We had a bit of a row," the girl admitted. "Well– more than a bit, really, we haven't spoken all week."

"Hm. I imagine you were perfectly reasonable?"

"Of course! He knows I'm right; he just doesn't want to admit it!"

"He was stubborn? Wore his heart on his sleeve?"

"Yes! He always goes with whatever he _feels_ is right, he never really _thinks_ about–" She stopped suddenly. "But how did you know?"

McGonagall raised an eyebrow and tilted her head towards the book. Hermione's eyes went wide. "Really?"

"Take it from me, Miss Granger," said the headmistress, "Love does not mean peace and serenity at every moment, certainly not between two such passionate people as yourselves. But however angry you might be, never shut each other out." Hermione could see a deep regret in the woman's green eyes. "The day will come when you would do anything to have that time back."

The younger witch stared at the elder for a long moment, gaping, and then suddenly leapt to her feet. "I- I have to go," she stammered, gathering her books. "I'm sorry, professor, I–"

McGonagall waved her hand. "Go. I'm not offended."

"Er- yes- thank you- have a good evening!" She dashed out of the office, leaving the headmistress to chuckle to herself. Oh, the ardor of youth.

Hermione hurried through the halls, her mind in a whirlwind. She no longer cared who was to blame (although she was still just as sure as ever that she was right); perhaps he was frustrating and stubborn and far too emotional at times, but the sudden image of her life _without_ Ron, cold and lonely, was too much to bear. _Stupid, stupid!_ she chastised herself, taking the steps of the grand staircase two at a time; if there was anything the last year ought to have taught her, it was that one should never take her friends for granted. She would take fighting with Ron over losing him any day.

Hermione rounded the corner towards the Great Hall and felt relief rush through her limbs; she ran forward and very nearly crashed into Ron as she threw her arms around him, taking a moment to appreciate how _real_ he felt, warm and strong and smelling of that particular spicy shampoo he used. "H-Hermione?" Ron stammered, startled, and she drew back. Harry was standing at his side, equally shocked.

"Um." She flushed red, realizing she had no idea what she'd actually intended to _say_ following her little display, and managed a very squeaky and embarrassed, "Er, can we- can we talk?"

Ron shared a surprised look with Harry, who gave him a shrug and tactfully disappeared inside the Great Hall. "Er- yeah, alright," said the redhead, gesturing down the hall. She followed, fiddling with her hands. He waited until they'd found a relatively empty alcove before turning to her and saying, "So, uh, what's up?"

Hermione bit her lip, uncertain what to say– and, in her uncertainty, it all seemed to come up in a jumbled rush. "I'm sorry," she began, appropriately enough, and then continued, "Not that we fought, I mean, I think we needed to, but more the _way_ we fought, if that makes any sense. I'm just worried, and I know that _you're_ worried, but I don't want to shut you out, Ron, if I ever lost you I wouldn't be able to take it, and honestly I'm just scared because what if this doesn't work out and then I _do_ lose you, I mean not _lose-_ lose but it would still be awful because you're one of my best friends and–"

"Alright, alright, 'Mione, slow down," the redhead broke in, holding up his hands. "What's all this about losing and shutting and whatnot?"

Hermione sighed and sat down on the marble bench. "Ron… I know we're not going to stop fighting," she said tiredly, shoulders slumped. "I don't think we can; we're going to disagree on things whether we want to or not. But I… what if this doesn't work out? What if _we_ don't work out, and then we can't be friends anymore?"

"Blimey, 'Mione," said Ron, startled. "Is this what all that was about?"

"Yes– well, no, not all of it– look, I know it's stupid."

"No, it's not," he said seriously, sitting down beside her. "Do you think I haven't worried about it, too?" She looked up, surprised. "The very last thing I want to do is risk our friendship. But what else are we supposed to do? I can't just stop fancying you; believe me, I've tried."

She gave him a small smile, and then sighed. "But it doesn't seem like we can stop rowing, either."

He shrugged. "Then I guess we'll have to find a way to row and still fancy each other at the same time."

Hermione managed a watery chuckle. "Do you think we can?"

"Dunno. My parents seem to make it work." He grinned, and then his grin faded. "We can't keep doing this, though. Ignoring each other whenever we're angry, I mean, it's been tearing me up– don't tell Harry, though."

"Oh, never," she agreed. "McGonagall said the same thing."

"McGonagall?"

Hermione winced. "I might have mentioned we weren't on the best of terms." Ron nodded, and she continued, "I still think you're wrong."

"Yeah, well… wanna know a secret?" She frowned, and he admitted, "So do I."

"Then why? Why won't you get him help? You know he needs it, Ron…"

"Where am I supposed to go, 'Mione?" Ron demanded. "There's nothing like that, not for wizards. What do I do, bring him to St. Mungo's? He'd never go for it."

"Tell your parents, then. Or Bill, maybe he could help him see sense."

"I can't do that to them," Ron sighed, head bowed, and she was struck again by how utterly exhausted he looked. "I _can't,_ Hermione. My parents… they've just lost a son. Bill's about to have a kid, Charlie's not home and George has never really looked up to Percy… it's got to be me. There's no one else."

"There has to be someone else," she argued. "And even if there's not, why does it have to be _you,_ Ron? You're still grieving too, you're not even out of school! Why you?"

He glanced up, and there shone in his blue eyes a willed determination, the same she'd seen years ago when he'd stood before the White Queen, the same she'd witnessed when he'd dared oppose Voldemort, in full view his best friend's supposed death, with nothing but his courage to protect him. The determination she'd fallen in love with. "Because he's my brother," said Ron quietly, and even if she couldn't agree, at last she understood.

"…Alright," she said softly. "Alright, Ron… one more month. But if George still won't answer your letters by then, you've got to get help. For him, alright?"

He nodded, looking far older than eighteen, and she took his hand into hers. Ron pulled her into a tight hug. "Merlin, 'Mione, I've missed you," he mumbled.

"I've missed you too," she admitted, drawing back. "So. Dinner?"

"Dinner," Ron agreed, rising to his feet. "You wouldn't _believe_ how hungry I am."

She snorted. "I've known you for eight years, Ronald; I think I could make an educated guess."

"I'll have you know, there is nothing wrong with having a healthy appetite…"

Back inside the Great Hall, Harry watched as his two best friends in the world entered, cheerfully bickering and walking hand-in-hand. His fiancé whistled lowly. "Looks like they worked it out."

Harry let out an internal sigh of relief. "Yeah. Looks like."

* * *

Dusk had already settled in and the sky was a deep blue by the time Remus met the headmistress near the front gates. "So I assume this means they aren't waiting for me with a silver-loaded revolver?" he inquired, shrugging on his cloak to ward off the autumn chill.

"Apparently not," McGonagall replied, as they passed through the gates; the wards rippled as they crossed over the property line. "I suppose being Italian, they haven't experienced much of the anti-werewolf prejudice from the northern vampire colonies… My hand, Remus."

He took it, and, after a somewhat nauseating few seconds of apparition, the pair landed in front of a small but charming cottage. From the windows poured a cheerful golden light which spread out into the shadowed countryside around them. Remus was surprised, although he knew he oughtn't be; it wasn't at all the sort of place in which one expected vampires to live.

He followed McGonagall up to the front gate and through a small rose-garden up to the front door. An old brass knocker, tarnished with age, hung on the green door, and she gave it three sharp taps before stepping back. A moment later, the werewolf's keen ears heard the sound of footsteps and a lock being thrown, before the door opened.

Remus had met only a few vampires over the course of his lifetime, and all only in passing: one had been waiting just in front of him when he went to file a change of address at the Ministry; a few times he had crossed paths with them at apothecaries or markets. Each time they had shared a glance and then studiously ignored one another, equally eager to avoid any sort of confrontation. They had always been sickly, sunken-eyed and smelling strongly of fresh blood.

This encounter, however, was different; the man who answered the door looked clean and in perfect health, aside from being remarkably pale, and offered the pair a warm smile. "Ah, _Professoressa_ McGonagall," he greeted, shaking her hand. "Enchanted to see you again. And you must be the _Professore_ Lupin. Welcome to our 'ome." Remus shook his hand and was pleasantly surprised to find that the man seemed to hold no ill will against him. "Please, do come in."

"Thank you." They followed the man inside; the interior of the house was warm, and a fire could be heard crackling from the sitting room. _"Lucia! Maria!"_ Mr. Antonelli called up the staircase. _"I nostri ospiti sono qui!"_

There came the sound of footsteps, and then two figures appeared at the top of the stairs. To the left stood a tall, elegant woman with glossy dark curls tumbling down to her waist; to the right, a petite, black-haired girl of about ten, clad in a tidy flora dress with a pressed white collar. Both were as pale as the man and had the same pewter-gray eyes. "My wife, Lucia," Mr. Antonelli introduced the first as they descended the stairs.

 _"Incantada,"_ said Mrs. Antonelli with a dazzling smile and shook their hands, though Remus didn't miss that her canines, like his own, were longer than normal.

"And my little daughter, Maria."

"Pleased to meet you," said the girl softly, kicking her feet and not meeting their eyes.

A light chiming sounded, and Mrs. Antonelli exclaimed, _"Ah!_ _La torta_!" before disappearing gracefully into the kitchen. Remus and McGonagall shared a glance of surprise, but didn't make mention of it.

Her husband led them down the hallway to a small sitting room. "Please, do make yourselves at 'ome. I shall fetch the coffee. Maria, come."

The girl followed her father back into the hallway, leaving the two professors to look around the room with interest. It was clear from the décor that the Antonellis were proud of their native heritage. A picture of the Coliseum hung next to the window, and another of a small Italian village above the fireplace, complete with a toy church and fields of olive trees.

"Venelucia," said a voice fondly, and both glanced back to see Mrs. Antonelli standing in the doorway with a chocolate torte. "Our hometown."

She set the torte down on the small coffee table; a moment later, Maria and Mr. Antonelli entered with a carafe of steaming coffee and a small silver pitcher of milk. Together the five sat down on the couches while the mother served coffee and slices of cake. Remus took a sip of his coffee, found it quite strong but very smooth, and watched inconspicuously as the hostess tried a bit of her own torte.

"You seem surprised, _Professore."_ Remus started, and Mr. Antonelli smiled again. "Have you never tried Italian coffee?"

"I– er, no, as it happens, but–" He blushed and stammered, "I didn't mean to be rude, only I… was not aware that vampires could eat ordinary food."

The man chuckled, and Mrs. Antonelli smiled. "We are not offended, _Signore_ Lupin," he replied. "Perhaps in Britain our kind do things differently, yes?" Remus shrugged, and he continued, "In Venelucia, all of our children are taught to abstain from blood and enjoy proper food. It has been this way for ages, no?" He glanced to his wife, who nodded. "And so, we do not grow ill."

 _Ah. That explains their good health, then._ Remus nodded, embarrassed, and took a bite of his torte; the cocoa flavor was very strong, but also delicious. "My goodness, this is incredible," he said, surprised. "Mrs. Antonelli, you are a wonderful cook."

The woman inclined her head with a smile. "You are too kind, _Professore_ Lupin."

"Well," McGonagall said politely, "Now that we have all been properly introduced, shall we get to the matter at hand?" The small family glanced to each other and nodded. "Very well. First and foremost, Maria, I would like to wish you a very happy birthday."

"Thank you, Miss," said the girl respectfully, taking a bite from her cake.

"In Great Britain, we begin magical training for witches and wizards at the age of eleven," the headmistress continued. "As such, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would like to extend an invitation for you to begin attending classes on the first of September next year. You would be with other students your age, learning how to properly control your magical talents."

 _"Professoressa,"_ said Mr. Antonelli, embarrassed, "although we greatly appreciate your offer, I… I'm afraid we do not have the money to send Maria away to school. I assure you, my wife and I can educate her properly at home, as our parents did for us."

"A fact of which I have no doubt," McGonagall reassured him, "And I certainly understand if you would prefer to instruct your daughter yourselves. However, if monetary concerns are the main factors in your decision, it need not be so; Hogwarts is aware of your particular difficulties, and is prepared to offer your daughter a substantial scholarship up to her fifth year."

"A scholarship?" Mrs. Antonelli said, surprised. "Why?"

"Because it is our belief that no witch or wizard should be denied an education. Moreover, your daughter's marks from her primary school in Italy are excellent; we believe she would be an excellent addition to our school. That being said," she added, inclining her head, "We understand if you have concerns you would like addressed."

The husband and wife glanced at each other, surprised, and seemed to have a silent conversation for several minutes before turning back to the headmistress. "Will she be able to hear the Mass?" Mrs. Antonelli inquired.

Remus was a tad surprised that this was their first request, but McGonagall seemed unperturbed. "Naturally. There is a Romish church at the edge of the village; I imagine our healer, Sister Irene, would be glad for the company."

"And the other children," said Mr. Anotelli carefully, "I know acceptance is too much to ask, but…"

"I can assure you that we will go to every power to ensure to that Maria is not singled out for her illness. Moreover, I have found that while children can at times be cruel, they can also be very kind." She smiled at Maria and said, most directly to her, "Your daughter is a sweet, polite child; I have no trouble believing she will be able to make friends."

When the pair looked doubtful, Remus decided it was his turn to step in. "Mr. and Mrs. Antonelli," he said respectfully, setting down his coffee, "although I cannot guarantee that your daughter will not experience a certain amount of prejudice at Hogwarts, I _can_ reassure you that the staff and administration will go to great lengths to ensure she is treated with all the same human dignity as any other child." He looked to McGonagall and added softly, "They did for me."

The husband and wife shared another look. "If you will pardon us for a moment," the man requested.

"Oh– of course."

The two stood and retreated to a corner of the room, speaking rapidly in Italian. Remus could catch only fragments:

 _"–Sembrano brave persone. Penso che possiamo fidarci di loro–"_

 _"–Ma non sono il nostro tipo! Che succede se–"_

 _"–Bisogno di imparare–"_

 _"E che cosa farà a imparare lì? Che sono meglio di lei?"_

 _"Giovanni. Dobbiamo fare ciò che è giusto per nostra figlia."_ She took his shoulders. _"Se Maria vuole andare, abbiamo bisogno di lasciarla andare."_

There was a long pause, and then the husband sighed and nodded. They approached the couches and sat down again. "If Maria wishes to go… then she will go," said Mr. Antonelli at last, though he still looked uncertain.

McGonagall nodded; Remus turned to the girl. "Do _you_ want to come to Hogwarts, Maria?" he asked kindly.

The vampire kicked her heels against the carpet, looking very unsure of herself. "The other children, they will be afraid of me?"

"Some will," he replied quietly. "But I'm sure many others won't care. Maria, look at me." She glanced up with those grey-black eyes, biting her lip. "You are not _bad,_ Maria, and you're not a dark creature. You're just a sick little girl, who deserves as much a chance at a good education as anyone else."

Maria bit her lip, and then, slowly, she nodded. McGonagall smiled. "We look forward to having you, Maria." She retrieved a letter from within a hidden pocket in the folds of her robes and handed it to the girl, who accepted it with interest. "School begins on the first of September next year. We can discuss any accommodations she might need in the coming months."

"You have our deepest gratitude, _Professoressa,"_ said Lucia Antonelli. "How can we ever thank you?"

"No thanks is necessary; it was my pleasure."

The rest of the hour passed with pleasant conversation and no little amusement from the Antonellis regarding the finer points of British culture. When at last the two professors bid their farewells, everyone was in high spirits. As McGonagall bid farewell to the parents, Remus dropped to a knee to look the girl in the eyes.

"I look forward to having you in class next year, Maria," he said kindly. "You seem like a very smart young lady."

"Thank you," she replied softly, but he could see the nervousness in her eyes, still fixed on the floor.

"Hey." She looked up, and he smiled. "Don't worry. You're going to love it there."

And for the first time all evening, the girl smiled back.

* * *

"Honestly, Hermione, we've got ages until our theses are due; I don't know why you're so worried."

"I'm not _worried,"_ the witch answered primly. "I just happen to find my topic _interesting."_

It was quarter to nine and the common room was slowly clearing out; the trio had claimed their favorite spots around the fire, Harry and Ron playing a game of chess in the armchairs and Hermione lying on the carpet, nose tucked in a book. The other students cast them looks of relief as they passed by on their way up to the dorms; Gryffindor Tower could become an uncomfortably chilly place whenever Ron and Hermione were fighting, but now it seemed all was right with the world once again.

"'Interesting,'" Ron scoffed, moving his bishop to take out Harry's knight. _("See? I told you not to put me there! I told you!")_. "You're writing a paper."

"I'm doing research that is pertinent to my career," she insisted. "It's good to study the people who've achieved what you're trying to do; you know what paths to take, which problems to avoid–"

"Paths, problems, you sound like Percy." He glanced over and cocked his head. "That's not McGonagall."

"Hm?"

"You said you were doing your essay on McGonagall, didn't you?"

"Oh," said Hermione, surprised; she hadn't expected him to remember. "Oh, well, yes, I was, but McGonagall suggested I write about him instead."

Interested, Harry glanced up from where he was still being berated by his captured knight and took a peek at Hermione's book, which featured a picture of a stoic-faced, silver-haired man in his late fifties. He seemed vaguely familiar…

"–Well I still say, doing something practical's bound to be more interesting than more studying."

"Says the man wanting to be an animagus."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean it's bound to involve a lot of studying, so you'd better get used to the–"

"I know him!" said Harry suddenly.

Hermione looked up, surprised. "What?"

"I know him– that man there, I've seen him before."

"Well, that's a bit of a shock, seeing as he's been dead for thirteen years."

"No- I mean-" He quickly dove for his book bag and pulled out a photograph. "There. See?" he said, pointing to a man behind James Potter with graying hair and a beard. "He was in the First Order. Mad-Eye never told me his name, though… Who is he, Hermione?"

"Elphinstone Urquart," she answered promptly. "Head of the Auror Office and then the DMLE, in his day. Really, you two should know this; you're the ones applying for auror training."

"So why'd Professor McGonagall suggest him, then?" Ron questioned, nudging his queen forward.

"Oh, she said she'd be happy to help if someone did a report on her husband," she replied absently, turning the page

This, apparently, was news to both boys, who dropped their pieces and looked back over. "McGonagall was _married?"_ Ron demanded, shocked.

"Mm. Met back when she worked at the Ministry, I expect."

"Blimey," said the redhead, leaning back in his chair. "Can you imagine being married to _McGonagall?"_

"Be nice, Ronald," Hermione scolded sharply, glancing up. "I'm sure they were a very happy couple."

"Not for long, apparently," said Harry, glancing over the page. "Look: _Married, 1982. Died, 1985._ Must've gotten together right after the War ended."

"Rotten luck. What did him in?" said Ron, peering over her shoulder.

"Venemous Tentecula bite, and do you two _mind?"_ she demanded irritably, shutting the book closed with a snap. "I'm trying to study, not make speculations on Professor McGonagall's love life!"

"Alright, alright, touchy," Ron muttered. "Checkmate, Harry."

"Aw, again?"

"You know, Ron, if I were you I'd want to get started on my thesis right away," Hermione interjected, sitting up against the back of his chair. "Animagancy is tough work; you'll want to get as much time to practice as you can."

"I'll be fine," he said dismissively, resetting the board.

"Well, so long as McGonagall's okay with it." When her boyfriend didn't answer, Hermione glanced up, frowning. "You _have_ talked to McGonagall, haven't you?"

Ron hesitated. "Er…"

"Ron, we're supposed to have our topics submitted in two days!" Noticing that Harry was remaining guiltily silent, she raised her eyebrows. "Harry, _tell me_ you've talked to Professor Lupin."

"Well…"

She huffed and flopped back against the chair. "I cannot believe you two. You know, I'm not always going to be around to take care of you."

"Look, it'll be fine," Ron hastened to say, clearly wanting to stay on good terms with his girlfriend now that their row was over. "McGonagall loves us; I bet if went up to her right now she'd give me the go-ahead!"

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Oh really?"

"Yeah, really!"

"Then let's go." She stood up and put her book back in her bag.

Ron gawped. "What?"

"You sounded pretty certain to me. Let's go ask her."

"Hermione– it's late– she probably wouldn't–"

"It's not even nine yet; besides, how long can it take to get her to sign one quick form?" She crossed her arms. "Unless you're scared?"

* * *

And that was how Ronald Weasley found himself knocking on the headmistress's door fifteen minutes later.

"Come in," a voice called, and he turned the knob hesitantly, glancing back. Hermione nodded encouragingly; Harry gave him a thumbs-up. Swallowing, Ron pushed the door open and slipped inside.

McGonagall looked up from her desk, adjusting her glasses. "Mr. Weasley," said she, "What a pleasant surprise." She caught sight of the form in his hand and said, "Something you'd like to discuss?"

"Er, yeah. I mean, um, yes." He bit his tongue.

"Well don't just stand there in the doorway; come in, take a seat."

Ron shut the door behind him and walked forward nervously, sitting down in the chair opposite her own. McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

"Um… well see, the thing is, I've been meaning to ask you for a while– that is, there's a favor I'd like to ask, and I know it's going to sound stupid, but–"

"Mr. Weasley," she cut him off, "I have had an extraordinarily long day, so I would thank you to please cut to your point, yes?"

He swallowed. "Right. Well, um, I need your help with my thesis. Er, if you'd be willing, that is." She frowned, and he clarified, "I want to become an animagus."

"Ah." Ron swallowed; the headmistress was scrutinizing him very carefully. "And to what end would you like to pursue this accomplishment?"

"Well, er– I think it could be really helpful, y'know, as an auror. And, I dunno, it seems pretty cool." He flushed.

"I see." Her green eyes were so intense he began to fidget; it felt like they could see straight through to his soul. "Well, Mr. Weasley, ordinarily, I would refuse to instruct any student who hadn't achieved an O in their Transfiguration O.W.L.," said McGonagall tartly, but then added, "However, considering that Filius says you show remarkable talent in charms, I might consider taking you on."

Ron gulped. "Er- Professor, I dunno what Flitwick's said, but-"

"Don't," she cut him off, holding up a hand. Ron shut up. "I know perfectly well your capabilities in charm-casting, Mr. Weasely; you take after your mother remarkably in that manner. Your difficulty is not a lack of talent, but a continued and, honestly, a tad impressive resistance to _applying_ yourself." She eyed him sharply. "Did you or did you not cast a working slug-consumption charm at the age of twelve?"

His ears went red. "Yeah- but-"

"An incredible feat that would certainly have warranted several extensive detentions had your wand not malfunctioned. Can you or can you not perform an effective confundus charm?"

"Well- okay, but that's not exactly-"

"And I do recall Mr. Potter telling me that you were the first member of the D.A. to produce a corporeal patronus; was this not indeed the case?"

"Look, you're making me sound a lot better than I am!" Ron exclaimed, leaping to his feet. Why he suddenly had to make her see the truth- that he was just ordinary and almost a bit hopeless- he wasn't certain, but he couldn't stand the praise she was giving him. "I'm not Harry or 'Mione, I can't- it's just a few spells, I'm not-"

"Mr. Weasely, please lower your voice; you are disturbing my red-caps."

He blinked, startled, and then glanced over to a small tank in the corner, where two red-caps were scuttling along the glass, not looking upset in the slightest. McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Sit," she commanded.

He did so.

"Now, Mr. Weasely, I must admit I am a little bemused. Were you or were you not just asking me to take you on as a student?"

"Yeah… but…"

"Then why exactly are you so insistently dismissing your own talent? And do not tell me it does not exist; I have been your professor for six years. I know very well of what you are capable."

He was silent for a long moment, and then said quietly, "Professor… look, I know I'm decent at charms. But animagancy… that's tough stuff, isn't it? What if- what if I'm not good _enough?"_

"In a discipline this intense, I'm generally inclined to award full points simply for a heartfelt attempt."

"That's not what I meant."

She nodded, a hint of kindness softening her gaze. "I thought as much. Mr. Weasely, I was similarly concerned when I was considering learning animagancy, and told my professor as much. Do you know what Albus said?" He shook his head. "He said I would be far more disappointed with myself if I never tried than I would be if I failed."

Ron bit his lip. After a long moment, he exhaled and said, "…You really think I can do this?"

"I would not be wasting my time on a student whom I did not think showed great potential."

His eyes widened. "So- so that's a yes, then? You'll help me become an animagus?"

McGonagall inclined her head, a twinkle in her green eyes. "That is a yes, Mr. Weasely. And for the record–" She tapped the application with her finger, "–I would advise you in the future to refrain from drawing comparisons between yourself and your friends as regards schoolwork."

"But– Professor, I _saw_ their O.W.L.s. I knew Hermione would be first in the class, but even Harry beat me out in Defense-"

"Harry comes from a long line of excellence in the field, Ronald; his grandfather Charlus was one of the best aurors the Ministry ever had the good fortune to employ; his father was a natural in the subject– the only one who ever performed higher in the class was Professor Lupin, which I'm sure you can imagine is quite a statement. Defensive magic practically runs in his blood. As for Miss Granger, she is without a doubt one of the brightest minds to ever pass through these halls; I believe that your attempts to compare the two of you has led you to have a rather dim view of your own talents– not to mention, given you the ability to pass your classes without actually putting in all of the effort."

Although Ron hastened to defend his girlfriend, McGonagall again cut him off. "Please don't insult my intelligence by lying to me; I know full well how often she revises your essays. If you want my advice for the upcoming year, it is this: stop relying so heavily on her help when you're perfectly capable of doing the work yourself, and make the effort to _comprehend_ the material you are given. If you put in the time and the work, I see no reason why you shouldn't come out of your N.E.W.T.s with a few _outstandings_ to show for it. Understood?"

Ron nodded. "Understood, Professor."

"Very good. Now-" She picked up her quill and signed the request. "Make sure to turn that in to Professor Lupin by the end of next week, and report to my office eight-o-clock next Monday evening."

"Eight-o-clock on Monday. Got it." He stood and shouldered his bag. "Have a good evening, Professor."

"You as well, Mr. Weasely."

As he opened the door, he glanced back. "Thanks, by the way," he said awkwardly. "For having a little faith in me. Most people… well, they don't see me as my own person, you know? Usually I'm just Harry and 'Mione's friend, or just another Weasely."

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Ronald, I have taught every member of your family, including your brothers and your parents, and both of your friends. I watched you grow from a child who could barely manage to hold his wand the right way forward to a young man who dared contradict Tom Riddle himself, in the face of certain death. And if I do recall correctly–" Here her green eyes seemed to glitter, as if she were holding back a smile, "–it was _you_ who beat a chess set enchanted to play exactly as I myself would, and at the age of _eleven._ Merlin forefend I should ever mistake you for 'just another Weasely.'"

He grinned at that. "Thank you again, Professor. Have a good night."

"And you, Mr. Weasley."

He left with a feeling of elation, nearly skipping as he walked out of the office. "So?" Harry demanded, as he shut the door. "What did she say?"

Ron grinned again. "She took me on."

Hermione gasped and hugged him happily; Harry clapped him on the back. "Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant, mate."

"Yeah, well, getting her help was the easy part," Ron said, expression turning a bit grim. "Actually _doing_ it is the problem."

"It's complicated magic," Hermione agreed solemnly. "But I think you'll manage it, Ronald; the process is half charm-work, and you're a fair hand at charms."

Ron went a little pink. "Er- right. That's true."

"Oh, by the way," Hermione added, as they started back down the stairs, "We've got that essay due for Professor Kemp tomorrow; would you like me to look over it?"

The redhead hesitated, and then said nonchalantly, "Nah, I think I've got this one. Thanks for the offer, though."

Hermione looked to him in surprise, and then smiled.

* * *

 _"…And now for papa's little princess…"_

 _Lavender smiled broadly as her father handed her a box wrapped in pale pink. "Can I open it, Papa?"_

 _Her father chuckled and nodded. The girl tore off the wrapping and opened the box; inside was a pale purple music box, adorned with a glass unicorn. She gasped. "Oh, Papa! Papa, can I play it?"_

 _"Go on, princess."_

 _Delighted, the girl turned the key at the back of the music box. A hauntingly beautiful tune chimed out in high, sweet notes. She watched, entranced, as the unicorn stood and galloped around the edge of the box, whinnying. Around and around it went… around and around…_

 _A note chimed, strange and discordant; it cut off in the middle of the song, and Lavender frowned. "Papa? It's not working. Papa?" She looked up._

 _Curses were flying overhead; Lavender stumbled to her feet, grasping her wand. Ahead of her one of her fellow students fell– stunned or dead, she didn't know, didn't have time to look. The Death Eater turned and caught sight of her._

 _"STUPEFY!" she cried, brandishing her wand before he could raise his own; the jinx struck and sent the man flying back against the wall. A shout sounded behind her, terrified, familiar. She turned. "Parvati!"_

 _"Lavender! Lavender help me!"_

 _"Parvati– hold on, I'm coming!" She dashed down the corridor, trying to reach the end, but it seemed to stretch out endlessly before her. Another scream sounded off the walls. "Vati! Vati, hold on!"_

 _Lavender rounded the corner, and then froze. The forbidden forest stretched out all around her, shadows cutting sharp into the pale moonlight. In the distance, a wolf howled. "Vati?" she whispered._

 _Silence. The witch swallowed, creeping forward into the trees. "Parvati? Can you hear me?"_

 _"…Hello, little girl…" a voice whispered menacingly. She turned, but saw nothing._

 _"Parvati? Are you here?"_

 _No one. The forest was empty, but a strange scent seemed to be filling the air– a heady musk, like furs left in an old wardrobe. The wolf howled again, closer this time. Lavender shivered. She didn't know why, but somehow the sound seemed to chill her to the bone. The full moon was glaring down at her, frightening her. Why was she so frightened? What did the full moon mean?_

 _A third howl startled her; she began to run, dashing through the trees. Someone was screaming– someone was being tortured, mauled, bitten, and she was next, he was right behind her now, she could smell him, hear him laughing right behind her–_

 _A hand grabbed her shoulder._

* * *

Lavender shot straight up in bed, still screaming. Hermione, Parvati and Ginny all jumped back, startled; in the next moment, the werewolf had scrambled off the bed and was running for the door. "Lavender!" Hermione called. "Lavender, wait-!"

It was too late. The blonde flew out of the room like the devil was on her heels and, in the next moment, was tumbling down the dormitory stairs. She landed on the common room floor below and immediately curled up into a ball, still screaming, pleading at the top of her lungs. "PLEASE! PLEASE, LEAVE ME ALONE, DON'T HURT ME, DON'T– _DON'T–!"_

"Lavender– Lavender, it's just us–" The three girls hurried down the stairs and gathered around the fourth, but the moment they touched her Lavender cried out:

 _"NO! PLEASE, NO!"_

Students were pouring out of the dormitories, rubbing their eyes, peering over the railings with interest. Desperately, Hermione leapt to her feet and ran to the fireplace, grabbing a handful of floo powder from the vase on the mantle. "Professor Lupin!" she called, throwing the powder into the hearth.

A moment later, a bleary-eyed face appeared in the green flams. _"Hermione?"_ Lupin said, startled. _"What in the world is–"_

"It's Lavender, Sir– something's wrong– she woke up and won't stop screaming!"

 _"Hold on, I'm coming through."_ The head disappeared, and a moment later a spinning figure took its place. Professor Lupin leapt out of the flames and hurried over to the girl, who was still sobbing. "Lavender," he said gently, kneeling down in front of her. "Lavender, it wasn't real; I promise you, you're safe."

 _"Don't hurt me, please, please–!"_

"Lavender, you're alright, he can't hurt you-" Lupin reached for her shoulder, but Lavender flinched away and screamed:

"GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU MONSTER!"

He froze. The girl shrank back, trembling, sobbing. Hermione was at a loss. "Lavender- Lavender, he's only trying to help-"

"It's alright, Hermione," Remus said quietly. "She doesn't know who I am." He nodded to a frightened young first-year nearby. "Fetch Professor McGonagall. Hurry."

Lavender was crying quieter now, clutching at her ankle, which was twisted at an odd angle and was swelling up in a nasty purplish color. Within moments another figure pushed her way to the forefront of the gathering crowds and knelt down beside the girl, speaking in soft tones. "Miss Brown," McGonagall said gently, "Miss Brown, it's Professor McGonagall; I need you to look up at me, child."

Lavender's shoulders still shouldered with the force of her weeping, but she managed to meet McGonagall's eyes. "Professor!" she cried, grasping at the woman's arms. "Professor, he's here, he's come for me-!"

"It's alright, girl," the headmistress said soothingly, holding the sobbing young woman as kindly as if Lavender were her own granddaughter. "You needn't fear any longer. You're safe here; he will never hurt you again."

"I c-can s-s- _smell_ him," Lavender wept. "He's here- he's _here-"_

"You are mistaken, child. He is not here. Would I lie to you?" Lavender hiccupped, and then shook her head. "You have had an unfortunate nightmare, that is all," McGonagall reassured her, drawing back and holding her at an arm's length so she could look her in the eyes. "Look around the room. Do you see anyone here who ought not be?"

The girl glanced about the common room, eyes darting over every face. At last, she said, voice quavering, "P-Professor Lupin… but that's all."

"Remus came solely to provide aid, I assure you. Fenrir Greyback is not in this room, he is not in this castle, and I very much doubt he could get in if he tried. Listen to me now, child: _you are safe."_

After a long silence, she nodded tearfully and wiped her eyes. McGonagall squeezed her shoulder gently and then drew her wand, mending the twisted ankle with a murmured charm. "Up you get now, girl; I'll have Poppy bring you a dreamless sleep potion in a minute. You won't have any more nightmares tonight."

"I can still smell it," Lavender whispered, standing. "It's in my hair…"

The headmistress turned and gave all the other students a hard look that clearly meant they were to return to bed. The common room slowly emptied, leaving only the three girls and Professor Lupin behind. Lavender was still crying softly, though now it seemed more with embarrassment than terror. "Miss Granger, please make the call to Madame Pomfrey," McGonagall instructed quietly. "Miss Patil, do you happen to know where Miss Brown keeps her perfume?"

"Yes, Professor."

"Fetch me the bottle, please." Parvati hurried and nodded up the stairs as Hermione made another floo-call. Ginny and McGonagall helped Lavender over to one of the armchairs while Professor Lupin carefully kept his distance. Only when Hermione had returned with a calming draught did the girl's tears eventually cease. "There now," McGonagall said comfortingly. "Feeling better?"

Lavender nodded, not meeting their eyes. McGonagall looked up as Parvati approached, carrying a rose-shaped bottle of perfume. She thanked her quietly and opened the cover; immediately a floral scent wafted into the air, calming the frightened werewolf even further. "Miss Brown, I want you to wear a touch of perfume every night when you go to bed," she directed her gently. "That should help, yes?" Lavender nodded, mopping at her eyes. "Very good. Let's get you back up to bed."

Lupin watched as the headmistress led the girl back up to her dormitory, flanked by her friends, before approaching the fire. A sick, nauseated feeling was curdling in his stomach like spoiled milk; he stared into the flames and tried to resist the creeping fingers of hatred clawing at his spine. How many times had he awoken screaming in the darkness? How many times had he relived that horrid night, never able to move past, never able to let go? He would not have wished his curse on anybody, yet Greyback had attacked an innocent girl on mere whim. Did not a man like that deserve to be detested?

He heard the door click shut quietly above him, but didn't look over even as McGonagall approached his side. For a long moment, the two stood in silence, watching the dying fire.

At last, the headmistress sighed. "Moon week is always the worst, isn't it?"

Remus let out a breath of air through his nose and nodded. He looked over, gold eyes gleaming in the firelight. "Do you ever miss it?"

Minerva's green eyes stared into the flames, fixed on an image he could not see but which, to her, was as clear as the night it had happened…

 _...The man's body shuddered under the blanket, and he gripped her hand tighter, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Minerva watched him anxiously. "How long?"_

 _"Not long," Elphinstone rasped, closing his eyes with a grimace and letting out a low groan. "Minnie," he muttered as he reopened them, hazel burning to amber, "Minnie, you should go–"_

 _"I'm not going anywhere." She closed her other hand over their interlocked fingers as he hissed, beads of sweat rolling down his face._

 _"I– don't– want– you– to see– this," he ground out, teeth clenched tight._

 _"I'm not leaving you, Elphi. Not now. Not ever."_

 _He flicked his eyes to the side, his honey orbs filled with uncertainty, with gratitude. "P-promise me you'll change. The moment you see the fangs, promise me you'll–"_

 _"I will, Elphi. I promise."_

 _He nodded, closing his eyes. A second later his breath hitched, and she knew._

 _The man's screams split the air as his spine arched, forcing him to curl up on his side. The witch let out a pained gasp, stifling her cry with her hands. He screamed again, and before her eyes his hands began to lengthen, fingertips buckling down, claws sprouting from the nailbeds–_

 _The third baying cry drew her attention; she looked to his face and saw that Elphi's had flown wide, pupils dilating, irises a blazing gold. His mouth was open, roaring in pain, and she saw the fangs begin to grow._

 _Quick as blinking the witch willed the change; for a moment everything seemed to be falling, and then the heightened feline senses settle in, making the vision before her all the more horrific. She watched as the curse took over her best friend's body, his mind, screams morphing into howls, fur sprouting from every pore, the light dimming in his eyes–_

 _And then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The transformation passed, leaving behind only a large gray wolf, whimpering with pain, and the tabby who crept over to him, curling up against him in comfort…_

…Remus watched as the flickering light played over the widow's face, her profile unmoving, her eyes unseeing. There was an utter silence in the room, save for the crackling of the fire, and he didn't know whether she even knew he was still there. Then, as quietly as the wind whispering through the leaves, he heard it:

 _"I miss him."_

And without another word, Minerva McGonagall turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.

* * *

 **A/N: This chapter was an absolute horror to write; I just couldn't seem to get the words to flow. Still, I hope you enjoyed it! In other news, I'm going back to classes fairly soon, so my updates may not be as long/as often. Also, prayer requests for the victims of the recent terror attacks, especially in the Philippines where some of my friend's family live.**

 **That being said, next chapter: the October full moon! (I've been dying to write this one forever!) And what did you think of McGonagalls' secret? :) Please do tell me what you thought; it motivates me to write more.**

 **God bless you all, and I'll see you soon! Pax et bonum!**


	17. Chapter 17: Hunter's Moon

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do I profit from this work produced here.

 **Warnings: naked werewolves, cursing, blood, Greyback being Greyback, transformation scenes. Oh, and lots of Teddy and Remadora fluff!**

* * *

Theron Lowell did not particularly like potatoes.

At least, he didn't like them raw. Until the last year and a half or so, the only time he had ever had potatoes was when they were served seasoned and slathered in butter as a side to a good cut of dragon steak. Of course, that was when he had been the sort of man who could _afford_ dragon steak. The very memory of it was enough to make him salivate; he hadn't had a plate of ordinary _beef_ steak in almost as long– at least, not cooked, and certainly not all to himself.

Even after all these months, Theron couldn't help but feel as if the old him had been a different man, living a different life. Once upon a time– sometimes, it did indeed seem a very long time ago– Mr. Theron Lowell had been a successful young business tycoon, the wealthy CEO of _Cauldrons and Co.,_ the largest cauldron-manufacturing company in Britain and, if the projections proved accurate, soon enough Northern Europe. Theron had taken pride in his work; he was a dedicated, ambitious young entrepreneur that set perfection as the standard of his company. No cutting corners for his firm, no-sir! No poor housewitch was going to write to _Home and Gnome_ complaining that her bleaching elixir had burnt through the bottom of his products! Soon his reliability and industriousness had paid off; he'd sold shares of his company to three other buyers, 40% to himself, twenty to each.

In hindsight, he could admit, that had been a mistake. One of three. The second had been so minor he'd put it out of his mind… at least, until it came back to bite him. Quite literally.

It had been a cold day in London, just a few days into December. He'd been late for a meeting– now, he couldn't recall what it had been about, but at the time he had thought it important. He was crossing a street with a crowd of muggles and heading into the part of London which housed most of the undercover wizarding businesses and corporations, when a hand had reached out and caught at his cloak.

He'd turned, startled, to see a thin-faced young woman looking back at him, sitting curled up in rags on the sidewalk. Her hungry yellow eyes had thrown him off-kilter; one of them was crossed but left undamaged by a white scar. Similar marks littered her face like cracks in porcelain. "Please, sir," she'd mumbled huskily, head ducked low, but looking, always looking at him with those unsettling yellow eyes. "Please, d'you have anythin' t'spare? Only I ain't eaten in three days…"

Theron had stared for a long moment, trying to figure out who this woman was, why she'd reached out to him. Then he realized the origin of the scars crossing her wind-chapped face, noted the sharpness of her long, white canines, read the hunger and fear in her yellow eyes.

He'd pulled his cloak out of her grasp, disgusted. "How dare you touch me, you- you foul _freak,"_ he'd hissed, repulsed, but the woman, far from shrinking away, reached up and grabbed at his arm, _"Please, sir, I'm starving, I can't go back to them, please-"_

 _Go back to them._ His fury had been stoked then, as he realized that this creature had, perhaps recently, been running with a pack, possibly with ferals. Enraged, he'd clamped a hand over her wrist and wrenched his arm from her grip, pulling her to her feet. "I told you _not to touch me!"_ he snarled. "Learn to keep your claws to yourself, you loathsome little _bitch,_ or next time I'll call the authorities!" He threw her down hard against the concrete and turned to go, only to find the muggles all staring at him, stunned at his show of violence against what they indubitably perceived to be just an ordinary beggar. Assuaging his pricked conscience by reminding themselves that they couldn't possibly understand what a horrid beast even now sat in their midst, he pushed through the crowd and hurried off into the snow. A glance back confirmed his justifications; the werewolf was glaring at him ferociously, tears flowing from yellow eyes filled with absolute and utter hatred.

The third mistake had been a simple one, a common one, made by nearly every foolish witch and wizard across the globe: the full moon had come, and he had not bothered to set a ward around the warm walls of his luxury cabin.

The next few weeks had been a living hell for Theron as his disgust for what he had become battled with his sense of self-preservation. Not a single one of his so-called friends had bothered to visit him at the hospital or even send a get-well card. His longtime girlfriend, saved from the same fate only by the happy accident of having been away for a modeling photoshoot that week, sent him word by owl as he was recovering that she saw no reason to continue their relationship. His partners at the firm had told him in cold, hard terms that they would walk away with their combined shares and assets to begin their own company if he didn't sell, rather than risk the inevitable drop in stock; Theron, backed into a corner and wanting to leave with at least a portion of what he had put into his company, his pride and joy, had agreed, signing the forms even while in his hospital bed. But all the money in the world could not buy him a cure; all it could do was convince the Healers at St. Mungo's to allow him to remain the ward long past when he should have been released, anonymous, snapping at the other happy patients when they tried to interact with him. What did _they_ know about suffering? What had _they_ lost?

The only discourse he'd had with anyone save healers and patients in those weeks had been the unexpected conversation with one of the visitors of the other patients, a man about five years his senior. Theron had known the moment he entered that this man was one of their– _his–_ kind, and had watched him warily throughout the visit. When the wife of one of the patients (an overly-cheerful redheaded man with, in Theron's opinion, far too many kids– redheads, too, probably a load of Micks) had lost her temper over some matter or another, the children had all scattered, and the other werewolf had approached.

"Hello," he'd said kindly. Theron glared. He'd had enough of kindness. All the healers and sisters had been so blasted _kind,_ some with pity, others with compassion. Theron didn't care which, it still made him feel like an invalid with only a few weeks to live. Bitterly remembering that the full moon wasn't far off, he thought to himself that maybe they had a point. "I'm Remus Lupin," the man continued. He extended a hand, and then withdrew when Theron didn't shake it. "It's, er, it's nice to meet you."

Theron rolled his eyes. "Save it," he growled. The man blinked, and he found a strange sense of pleasure in knowing that he could startle even him, another beast. "I don't want your pity, and I don't want your soapbox on how I'll be able to live an 'almost normal life.' I've had enough of that shite." He rolled over in his bed and hoped the bloke would just go away.

"You know, you've got a lot of nerve," said Mr. Lupin sharply, and Theron looked over his shoulder, startled. "I came over here hoping my friend there had been wrong about you–" He jerked his head back to the cheerful redhead, who was now not looking nearly so cheerful as he was being berated by his wife, "–but clearly he was far too polite in his judgments."

"Oh really? And what did he tell you?" Theron sneered, forcing himself upright. "That I'm a beast? An animal they ought to lock up?"

"No," Lupin replied flatly. "He said you've been right horrid to the healers and to the other patients. Amazingly enough, he actually pities you for it."

"And you don't?" Theron snorted.

"No. I don't." His mouth was tight. "Life's dealt you a pretty hard blow, I won't deny it. But that doesn't give you the right to be an insufferable arse to everyone else." And with that, he turned on his heels and walked away, leaving Theron to gape in his wake.

He didn't see the man again for another five days, and by the time Remus Lupin visited again, Theron had done a lot more thinking. He'd realized, after much internal ranting at the other werewolf, that maybe the man had a point. The trouble was, Theron realized, he wasn't "an insufferable arse" because he was a werewolf. He'd always been an insufferable arse, and his frustration over his new condition had just pushed him over the edge into a new level of insufferable arsery. Feeling rather ashamed of himself, he'd made it a point to be nicer to the healers, and found to his surprise that his own mood had improved, as well.

It was nearing the end of visiting hours on New Years' Eve when the other werewolf came around to the hospital again, this time bearing flowers and gifts. He spoke again quietly with his redheaded friend, chuckling at a joke and handing him a tin of what appeared to be handmade cookies, and charmed the wilting bouquet of flowers on the man's nightstand to bloom again. Then, he'd approached Theron, still carrying a small potted poinsettia and a tin under his arm.

"Hello," he said, looking surprisingly sheepish.

"Hello," Theron had replied back, startled and equally embarrassed.

"I- ah- I brought you some cookies," Mr. Lupin began uncomfortably, holding out the tin. "And a flower. Thought it might, er, brighten up your space here…"

"Oh. Um, well, thank you."

He watched Lupin set the red poinsettia and the tin down on the nightstand. "They're gingerbread," the man explained. "I hope you're not allergic."

"Oh. No, I'm not."

Lupin nodded, bit his lip. The two sat there in silence for a few uncomfortable seconds. Theron wondered if he should say something.

"I came here to apologize," Lupin said abruptly, startling the other werewolf. "For the way I acted last time, I mean. I forgot how hard it must be, being so newly turned."

"It's alright," Theron replied, surprised. "I- I think it's what I needed to hear, honestly."

"Oh. Er, well… good," the other said lamely. They fell into silence again, watched as the door opened and the redheaded man's redheaded wife came in, bundled up in cloak and scarf and blushing with cold. She sat down beside her husband and they talked about children and homemaking nonsense for a minute or two, before she pulled out a magical firecracker and handed one to her husband. His face lit up with glee, and, after warning the other patients (who were all watching with much excitement), they pulled it together. A loud bang went off, covering the two in blue smoke, and when the coughing had ceased they found themselves with a bejeweled crown.

Theron watched with a mixture of jealousy and amusement as the man made a joke about the pudgy woman being his "fair queen" and crowned her, causing her to blush red and smack his arm. His ex-girlfriend would never have stood for anything so cheesy, let alone blushed at it, yet Theron was somehow moved.

"I'd hoped he'd be home for New Year's," Lupin sighed, drawing Theron's attention. "The family misses him terribly. They're good people."

"The wife thinks I ought to be locked up," Theron said quietly, a forlorn feeling entering his heart. He felt as if he'd been shut out of that happiness forever, and was looking in on it through a window.

Lupin glanced down at him sharply. "What?"

"She said so earlier. She thinks I'm dangerous, that I ought to be in a private room."

"Oh." Lupin relaxed, and Theron realized how his original comment must have sounded. "She means well, you know. She just worries; she's sort of everyone's mother."

"Even yours?" he said doubtfully.

Lupin laughed aloud at that. "If the three servings of Christmas pudding she nearly forced down my throat are any indication?"

"How can she stand being around you?" Theron demanded, baffled. "If she's so scared of werewolves?"

"Well, that's the thing about Molly; she really loves everyone, no matter how scared of them she is. Sometimes I think if You-Know-Who himself came to her door begging for food, she'd insist on giving him second helpings. But she's not frightened of me anymore, really," he mused. "Gotten used to me by now, I suppose."

Theron nodded. They sat in silence again, this time more comfortably. After a long while, the younger werewolf managed to get up the courage to whisper, "What's it like?"

Lupin glanced over, and his eyes softened.

"It's hard," he admitted. "Not impossible, but hard. The transformations are painful, even with Wolfsbane, and you'll probably find that your temper is more volatile, too."

"Yeah, I noticed that." He hesitated. "Just… just how _much_ does it hurt? I don't really remember much from that night at all, just the attack."

Lupin bit his lip. "…It's bad," he murmured. "Awful, really– but it's over soon enough. If you've gotten your hands on some good Wolfsbane, it's not as hard. But the, um…" He looked away, and murmured so softly that only the other could hear, "The cravings, on those nights, they're difficult."

Theron felt his mouth go dry. "Difficult?" he rasped.

"Oh- not like that. I mean, they're certainly tempting, but they won't overpower your free will, not so long as you've taken the potion. No, I meant that they're difficult to cope with. As in… as in, emotionally, they're… disheartening." He swallowed and continued in a more ordinary tone, "And of course, the social stigma isn't particularly pleasant."

Theron felt a stab of guilt. "No," he mumbled. "I guess not."

If Lupin caught on to this, he didn't make any indication of it. "It's not all bad, though," he said, with a small smile. "People can be cruel, but they can also be incredibly kind. Our condition, it's… it's a weakness, certainly, but weaknesses are chances to let others love us."

"I don't have anyone," said Theron quietly. "Not anymore."

"For a long time, I thought the same thing," Lupin confessed. "But you'll find them, Theron. And if no one else," he added, smiling down at the man, "You have me."

And that night, for the first time in many weeks, Theron had managed a real smile.

He'd left the hospital the day after the next full moon. Lupin had been right; the cravings were "disheartening," to say the least, but with the morning light they had faded, leaving him tired and hungry, but still with his dignity. Lupin had come to see him off, with promises to keep in touch, and Theron had had every intention of doing just that… until the next full moon.

His fourth mistake had been his biggest. Of all he had lost, Theron had, at least, kept the little cabin out in the woods. He had prepared for it all day, reading up on the transformation itself, setting off anti-muggle wards around the cabin, forcing himself to eat as much of his steak as he could manage. But he had made one small, innocent little mistake, without even realizing it. After having taken his wolfsbane, he made himself a cup of tea to wait and had mixed in two tablespoons of sugar, waiting calmly for the moon to rise. He didn't realize his mistake even as his consciousness shut down, but he knew that something had gone wrong, and that terror drove the wolf mad.

The next morning, quite apart from waking up in his cabin, he awoke back in the empty Dai Llewellyn Ward, burns covering his arms and back in a crisscross pattern where the aurors' silver nets had caught him, realizing what fate he had by grace alone somehow escaped.

After that, Theron had decided he could not dare to even be near ordinary human company anymore. He sold the cabin and all his assets, put away a reasonable amount in Gringotts in case he should ever change his mind, and gave the rest away to charity. Then he walked off into the English wilderness and waited for a pack to find him.

And find him they did. He had not realized how strong the alpha-submission instinct would be until he met Fenrir Greyback, the fearsome leader of the most powerful pack in Great Britain. He'd been less than pleased to find that Theron was unwilling to turn feral, but said that he would 'adapt eventually' and assigned him to watching over the 'pups,' three children who ran with the pack after having been orphaned or abandoned by their families, the eldest no older than ten. There he'd met the young woman with the scar who'd begged him on the street– the young woman, he'd realized, who'd bitten him, and had used his victimhood to turn feral.

At first, he had been terrified of her, terrified and disgusted. Unfortunately, they'd had no choice but work together; it seemed that the woman had likewise been assigned to caring for the children, and, though Theron couldn't claim to know much about parenting, he knew at least that a united front was better than a house divided (or a den, as it were). Much to his surprise, it had seemed that the woman was as frightened of him as he was of her; as the days passed, however, they slowly grew accustomed to each other. Theron could even admire how well she managed the children; the woman– Mallory, as he eventually learned– had a firm nature but a gentle hand, and the children were utterly devoted to her.

In time, the two grew close; one night before the full, Theron had summoned the courage to ask her whether she ever regretted turning him. Mallory had begun to cry, and, through her tears, admitted the whole story: she had been raised in the pack from her childhood, and had only managed to find the strength to leave when she'd heard Greyback's plans to side with the Dark Lord, whom she thought a despicable man. But, being an unschooled werewolf whose very existence was unknown to the Ministry, she had found it impossible to get work or shelter, and had resorted to begging on the streets of London to survive. After he'd rejected her, she'd turned to hatred of all humankind, and, seeing no other means of survival, had returned to the pack. There she had been given an ultimatum: turn feral, or leave the pack forever. "Lone wolves never survive," she'd whispered, full of shame. "You know the rest."

He knew. He understood, and forgave. How could he do otherwise, Theron realized? He loved her.

They became a family then– Theron and Mallory, and the children they would later properly adopt, protecting each other, caring for each other. For him she turned Tame again; for her he became a humble man, a loving father. Eventually the two were married, and, after the pack had crumbled, they'd fled together here to this place, a small haven of peace in a world of chaos. Here they'd hid their children through the dark days of the war, here they'd kept each other safe.

And now, the war was over. Now they could live safely, though still secretly; the small family had good reasons not to draw attention to themselves. Theron bought their daily bread through carefully rationing out the money still left in his accounts and bookkeeping for the squib who owned the local wizarding pub, while Mallory took in washing and tailoring for the muggle women in the village. They trapped rabbits and other small rodents in the small nearby wood, albeit illegally, and tended to the small garden from which he was currently digging up several potatoes because, Moon Day or not, the transformation that night was bound to go smoother if it was done on a full stomach. Theirs was a poor life, and so rabbit and potatoes it would have to be.

He rested on his hoe for a minute, looking out into the darkening trees. The sun had turned the color of a ripe apricot and was slowly sinking towards the horizon, a sign as to the dwindling time before his companion, the silver moon, rose opposite him on the horizon. The sound of birds cooing in the dying light and the rustle of small animals in the trees near the cottage met his ears, and drifting from the window behind him he heard a gentle Gaelic tongue croon:

 _"Dacw 'nghariad i lawr yn y berllan,_

 _Tw rymdi ro rymdi radl idl al._

 _O na bawn i yno fy hunan,_

 _Tw rymdi ro rymdi radl idl al..."_

 _Then again,_ he thought, glancing into the window of his humble cottage, the gold light of the kitchen framing the image of a young woman, scarred yet smiling, _no side of sirloin ever made me as happy as a bowl of scrap stew._

He leaned the hoe up against the cottage wall and picked up the potatoes, groaning as his stiff joints creaked in protest. Mallory was still singing in the kitchen as he entered, and he was struck as always with her particular fortitude in the face of another full moon:

 _"...Dacw'r ty a dacw'r 'sgubor;_

 _Dacw ddrws y beudyn agor._

 _Ffaldi radl idl al, ffaldi radl idl al,_

 _Tw rymdi ro rymdi radl idl al..."_

She trailed off, setting aside her knife and scrutinizing the chopped rabbit meat with a disatisfied, hungry look in her eyes, which were ringed with bruises of strain and fatigue. Theron knew that years of eating her food raw was exacting its pull on her instincts, and so he spoke up: "Don't stop just because of me."

Mallory looked over, surprised, and then smiled. "Theron. I didn't know you were listening."

"You sing beautifully, my love." He approached and kissed her gently on the cheek, handing her the potatoes. "Where are the children?"

"Sleeping. We ought to wake them, or they'll be too tired to eat."

"I'll do it." He tilted up her chin and kissed her again, this time on the lips. Mallory smiled tiredly as he drew back, and he brushed a stray strand of chestnut hair out of her eyes. "Be strong, love."

The children were indeed all asleep, curled up together on the bed in the larger bedroom. Michael, the eldest, stirred as he entered. "Time for dinner?" he mumbled, even more exhausted than his adoptive mother.

"Nearly. Wake Charles, will you?"

Michael sat up, yawning, and turned to his younger brother, shaking him gently as Theron knelt down at the edge, brushing his fingers through the black hair of the youngest and his only daughter, Lucy. The girl opened her eyes and looked up at him, confused for a moment, and then pleading.

"Can't I sleep a little longer, papa?" she whispered, looking very sickly indeed.

Theron smiled sadly. "Afraid not, little one. We'll be eating soon."

"I'm not hungry, papa..."

"I know, Lucy, but you have to eat. It'll make you feel a bit better, I promise."

Lucy sighed and closed her eyes again. Theron's heart was tearing in two, as it did every month at this time for his children. None of them, of course, were his by blood; Michael had been abandoned by his parents at the age of six, both of whom had refused to show up to the adoption hearing; Lucy and Charles, alone among the five actually related, had been orphaned the same night they were turned, then only four and seven years old. But whatever their beginnings, whoever they may have been but for the bite, they were his now, and he loved them as much as if they had been his own flesh and blood. Moved with pity, Theron picked his little girl up into his arms (a task which would have been difficult for an ordinary man, being that the girl was now seven, but which for him was only uncomfortable due to the proximitiy of the full moon) and carried her into the kitchen.

The stew was ready not long after, which Mallory served in the chipped ceramic bowls that Theron had no doubt were older than even himself. The small family murmured grace in unison, and then all five looked with distaste down at their meals. The brown sludge was peppered here and there with orange and khaki chunks of carrots and potatoes, and steamed softly with an odor that Theron was sure on any other day would have smelled delicious, but which this evening made his stomach turn with nausea.

"Mama, it doesn't smell good," Lucy pleaded, looking up at her parents with pitiful hazel eyes.

"That's not polite, Lucy," her father reproved, as Mallory's expression had fallen even lower at the innocent comment. "Your mother worked very hard on this dinner." Feeling that, as the head of the household, he should be the first to set a good example, Theron swallowed his distaste and picked up his spoon. Mallory followed and, with a nod from his father, Michael did the same. The younger two followed suit, albeit glumly.

In the end, none of them managed to choke down any more than a few spoonfuls. Theron gave his wife a weak smile and said as he stood, muscles stiff, "It was delicious, love."

"Don't flatter me, Theron," Mallory mumbled, resting her head exhaustedly on one hand. The man bit his lip and took pity on her, clearing her bowl to the kitchen. Again Michael followed his lead, generously collecting the dishes from his siblings. Outside the kitchen window, beyond the garden, the sun had turned to a blazing scarlet in the sky, brushing against the horizon. Theron glanced down to his son and saw Michael looking back, the dying light gleaming bronze on his golden hair and pale skin, his eyes serious and intelligent like those of a pious child-saint.

"It's time, isn't it?"

Theron nodded and tried to smile ruefully, to give the boy some encouragement, but his mouth twisted into a grimace instead. Michael looked again towards the setting sun, and his father was struck how at the young age of twelve, the boy looked older than he himself had at twenty-five.

Soon after the family took their leave, each with a blanket under one arm and a change of clothes under the other. Theron took Lucy's and picked her up, allowing her to latch her arms around his neck and rest her tired head on his shoulder. Michael kept Charles distracted with talk about racing brooms as Mallory locked the door behind them, and in unison, the five started 'round the cottage and east towards the growing darkness. There was a slight ripple as they passed the wards of the _fidelius_ charm, and, as they reached the crest of the hill, they paused, each taking in the sight before them.

The ruins of the ancient castle stood, ivy-covered and crumbling, black silhouettes against the blue of the evening sky. A slight tingle ran along Theron's spine, and from Mallory's shudder he could tell she felt the same. The children fell silent as they continued the climb up the hill, sensing the gravity of the location. Of the castle itself there was little left; fifteen hundred years of weather and wear had brought it low from the strong fortress it once had been. It had not been a large castle, little more than a walled keep with an attached chapel, but it had been tall and stalwart, a stronghold against dangerous foes and darker forests.

In the center of the keep was a cloistered courtyard, the walls crumbling on every side; this was the most heavily enchanted part of the ancient castle, and thus had fared better than the rest. The vegetation here had long since grown out of control, the walls covered with ivy and the ancient gardens overcome by weeds, but in the center of the courtyard, where the magic was strongest, was a shallow, perfectly circular pool built from white marble, the water still crystal-clear despite the passage of the centuries. Here the family paused and stopped to look: in the bottom of the pool was an enchanted mosaic, depicting gray wolves wandering the green moors, beneath a sky that was slowly shifting from purple to indigo. At the eastern horizon a silvery light was beginning to grow, and around the edges of the mosaic were the words:

CASTRVM LVPINVS ~ COR HOMINIS VINCIT VNGVIBVS BESTIA

"Alright, you lot, on down to the dungeons," Mallory said at last, breaking the silence; here, if nowhere else, she held the authority, and something about the ancient stones and clear waters made the rough-cut woman seem like a lady of days gone by. "Quickly now, before the moon rises."

"Mama, can't we change out here?" Lucy pleaded. "We've taken our potion!"

"It'll be alright, Lucy," Michael interjected, sparing his mother the need to answer. "We'll run free just as soon as we've turned, I promise." The dungeons, which had been prepared specifically for their kind, disgusted Mallory and Theron, but they were indubitably the safest place to transform in case anything went wrong: sound-proofed, inpenetrable and having been repaired less than thirty years ago, the chances of them escaping without full possession of their mental faculties were slim at best. The five were just about to return inside the keep when a breeze drifted through the courtyard, swirling the dirt and crumbled leaves at their feet. In unison, they froze.

Another draught whispered through the ancient stones, carrying with it that dreaded scent. Mallory turned to Theron, yellow eyes wide. The children looked up at their parents in fear. "No," Theron whispered hoarsely.

Mallory looked quickly to the pool. The tiles at the eastern edge were shimmering from blue to white. "Theron, take the children and run," she whispered.

"No– Mallory, you go– I'll hold him off–"

"He won't hurt me– at least, not too badly. But if he finds you here, he'll kill you. You're the only one who knows how to apparate, Theron!"

"Then I'll take you with us!"

"And who will protect the village? How many people will be turned or slaughtered tonight if I run?"

Theron was about to respond when a sound caught their sensitive ears: the noise of footsteps crunching lightly over grass. "There's no time, Theron!" Mallory hissed. "Take the children and go!"

"No– Mallory, _no–"_

She seized his shoulders, eyes blazing like fire. "By the blood of Melion which flows through my veins, Theron Lowell, I order you to take our children and run!" she commanded, and there was something in her voice that he was compelled to obey. "For our children," Mallory pleaded, "for me, Theron, _please,_ just go!"

He hesitated, and then looked back towards the kids. They were wide-eyed, frightened. The man swallowed, and then turned again and kissed his wife fiercely. He drew back, tears gleaming in his eyes, and vowed hoarsely: "I'll come back for you."

Then he was gone, disappearing into the growing gloom with the speed of a hunter, the little ones following like shadows in the night. Mallory turned towards the break in the keep walls from which the scent had come and drew a deep breath, closing her eyes, every instinct on the alert.

She knew the moment they arrived, both by scent and by sound, but did not look up until he spoke. "Bright Eyes."

Mallory opened her eyes, gleaming gold in the darkness. Fenrir Greyback stared back. "It's Mallory now, actually," she replied calmly, though inside her heart was thundering.

The man opened his mouth as if to reply, but apparently decided against it, turning to his companions. "They can't have gotten far," he told the two. "Catch them before they get to the apparition wards. The pups aren't to be harmed; do whatever it takes to get that traitorous dog back here. But leave him alive." His mouth twisted into a snarl. "I want him for myself."

Mallory's heart leapt into her throat at that, but she said nothing as Brute and Cyclops dropped to a knee in submission, and then dashed off in pursuit. When they were gone, Greyback took a moment, looking around. "How ironic," he murmured, but for him it sounded more like a growl. "How fitting, that you would come here. How could I not have guessed it before?"

"We were protected," she replied stiffly. "By the magic you so hate."

"Ah, yes," the man replied with a snort. "I should have known that the mutt would hide you away, like something to be ashamed of."

Mallory snarled, baring her teeth. "The only thing we were hiding from was you!"

Fenrir stopped for a moment at that; she imagined a flicker of pain crossed his brutish features, but in the next moment it was gone. "I've been patient, Bright eyes, but this childishness has gone on long enough," he growled, stepping forward. "Tonight we will run, and tomorrow you will return with me."

"I can't do that."

"You would stay here?!" he demanded, gesturing to the crumbling walls and the gleaming marble pool. "Here, where they hate you? Here, where you burn the flesh to eat it, where you hide in men's hovels instead of running free? Here where you deny your instincts to pretend to be human?"

 _"I am human!"_ she cried. His yellow eyes flew wide. "I belong here, with my family! What you do, what I have done, it's unnatural!"

"What is _unnatural_ is to abandon your pack!" he snarled. "You are a wolf, Bright Eyes! Your future is with your pack, and as your alpha _,_ I order you to return and fulfill your duty!"

That was the final straw. Mallory's eyes gleamed, and she stood tall, setting her chin. "They are not my pack. And you are no longer my alpha."

Fenrir Greyback stared at her, stunned. He looked as if he wanted to speak further, but at that moment, far to the east, the full moon's silvery curve rose above the moor's horizon, and the pain struck them both. Mallory cried out as she fell to a knee; every bone seemed to be cracking, every nerve shocked with a thousand volts of electricity. Her skin burned, her jaw ached, her hands buckled and clawed at the stone–

Another scream wrenched from her throat as her humerous bones snapped, forcing her to collapse to her side. A roar of pain met her ears, and through bleary vision she saw the man before her curled up on the stone, contorted into a form unnatural. "Don't make me do this, Bright Eyes," he rasped. "Run with me– I beg of you, don't fight it–"

He bellowed as she screamed, back arching, fur sprouting, fangs arching white and sharp over her teeth as her jaw pushed itself forward. She writhed and bawled and pleaded for it to be over, just let it end, oh, why, why wouldn't it end–?

...Three minutes later, the lower edge of the moon crossed the horizon, and, like angels dousing the fires of purgation, the pain faded away. Mallory lay there, whimpering, and wated for the trembling in her limbs to wane.

A sound met her ears; she lifted her head, sniffing the air. Greyback's wolf lay not far from her, still gasping for breath; she stumbled to her feet, but before she could do anything more, two wolves came stumbling painfully into the courtyard. The great alpha wolf pushed himself to his paws and lumbered over, giving them each a sniff; they quickly lowered themselves into the position of submission, and the alpha gave them each a snort. Mallory tensed as Greyback turned to her. There was no light in his yellow eyes, no human recognition, but she knew that, traitor though she was, he would not harm her unprovoked.

Somehow, that made this all the more difficult.

The alpha paced over her, unaggressive, merely expectant. He waited for her to submit, and Mallory summoned her nerve. Crouching in an attack position, she growled, raising her hackles. The alpha looked at her in surprised, and then growled in return, hunching its shoulders. The meaning could not have been clearer: _down, pup._

The witch didn't listen. Instead, she snarled, baring her teeth. The challenge had been made. The two beta wolves approached their alpha, and he growled again. Nobody challenged Greyback's authority. No one.

She snarled again, and then snapped her teeth, dancing forward. Goodness knew if she could survive a night brawling with the greatest werewolf to ever live, let alone his betas, but for the sake of the peacefully sleeping village below, she had to try.

With a fourth and final snarl, the alpha had lost his patience. He bounded forward, and as Mallory felt his teeth sinking into her shoulder, she could only pray that somewhere beyond the madness and bestial wrath, he still remembered that once, not so long ago, she had been his daughter.

It was her only hope.

* * *

 _ **(Twenty-Four Hours Previous)**_

The time just before the full– commonly called "Moon Week" among the lycan kind– could be measured by symptoms more accurately than clockwork, at least to the experienced. Having been a Tame werewolf for longer than most managed to live after the bite, Remus considered himself to be among that unfortunate band whose chronological instincts were accurate almost to the second.

The first few days of Moon Week always ran the same: from the first day to the fourth, his levels of alertness and attentiveness would progressively rise. This could have its advantages and disadvantages; Remus was never more skilled in a duel than in the week preceding a full moon. On the other hand, in peacetime, this hyper-sensitivity could make him irritable and jumpy, more prone to outbursts of panic or anger during the day, and spells of insomnia or night terrors at night.

Day five was what he chose to call "Feast Day," the beginning of the intense hunger cravings in preparation for the massive energy loss drawn by the change. This was followed by day six, "Wolf Day," where the moon, one night before the full, was fat in the sky, sending his senses into overdrive and making it increasingly difficult to control his baser instincts. Day seven, "Moon Day," was marked by intense fatigue, aches, and nausea as his body conserved as much energy as possible.

The Sunday before the October full moon fell on a Wolf Day, and by sunset, Remus's nerves were like live wires. He had spent the entire day on edge, hungry, and irritable; every time he came in out of the cold he felt like a caged animal, reduced to pacing, anxious to taste the fresh air. Morning services in the church had been almost unbearable, due to the combination of his near-claustrophobic aversion towards the indoors and the distracting scent of Dora's hair, which smelled even better than normal. Afterwards, he had escaped out into the village and spent the day wandering the roads of Hogsmead, venturing into the forest whenever the clamor of humanity grew too much for his sensitive ears.

Now dusk had fallen and, after taking his dinner in the Hogwarts kitchens where only the discreet house-elves could witness him tear into a roast like a starved dog, he'd retreated to his apartment, climbing up to the tower to watch the near-full moon rise over the Scottish mountains. The great silvery orb pulled at his blood and set it ablaze, silver through his veins, fire crackling over the snow.

Remus sat down with his back to the stone pillar and clenched his fists, forcing himself to breathe through his nose. "You are a man, not a beast," he chanted to himself, "control your passions… cool your blood, Remus…" He felt like a piece of yarn being unraveled and strung taught, his natural instincts pulled out of the realm of the virtuous into the selfish, the animalistic. He wanted to be a brute. He wanted to eat an entire feast, brawl a thousand men and be with his wife as a man ought until the moon set in the west.

But Remus Lupin did none of those things. Instead, he went down to his study, made himself a cup of chamomile-mint and sat down to grade the third-years' essays on ghouls. Halfway through a rather poorly written paper whose author seemed to believe that ghouls were "defiantly" the ugliest creature he knew, he heard the study door open behind him, and was nearly taken off-guard by the tantalizing wafts of his wife's green-apple shampoo. "Hey, love," said Dora gently as she approached, mindful of his sensitive hearing. "How're you feeling?"

"Like a bottle of butterbeer someone shook up and set outside in the sun," he sighed. "I just wish this were already over."

"I know. I'm sorry, darling." She set a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, and Remus flinched instinctively; every nerve seared where she'd touched him, like a brand under his skin. "Is there anything I can do?"

He looked up at her imploringly. "I don't suppose there's any chance we wouldn't make another kid tonight?"

Dora shook her head. "Sorry, love."

Her husband let out a groan and put his head down on the desk. The auror chuckled ruefully and dropped a brief kiss on his head. He flinched again and she bit her lip. "Sorry. I guess that wasn't helpful, was it?"

"Not particularly," he mumbled from the parchment. "Oh, who am I kidding, I can't focus on this." He stood and rolled his shoulders. "I'm going for a run."

Dora nodded sympathetically. "Don't be out too long; you need your rest for tomorrow."

Remus grimaced and ran a hand through his brown hair. Moon Day was by far the worst day of the month, full of aches and chills and the growing dread of the approach of his own personal hell. "Be back soon, love," he mumbled as he brushed past her, not trusting himself to actually kiss her goodbye.

Within fifteen minutes he'd left the castle grounds, traveling north around the Black Lake and out of the forest, stopping at the edge of the Scottish moors. The night air was crisp and refreshing on his feverish skin; Remus stripped off his shirt and removed his shoes, standing barefoot in the long cool grass. The moonlight caught on the jagged scars cut into his pale flesh, eyes glowing yellow as he turned his head to the sky and breathed the cold air deep into his lungs.

Then he took off, chasing the winds across the open fields, wild and free under the starry sky and the swollen moon.

Back at the castle, a figure sat upon the roof of the tower, golden hair fluttering in the wind, white skin glowing like marble under the great pearly moon, and fought the urge to scream.

* * *

"Remus. Remus, love, you need to wake up."

Hazel-gold eyes fluttered open and squinted in the rosy light. The man groaned and clutched at his head with one rough hand as a sharp pain drove into his skull. "What time is it?" he mumbled.

"Nearly half-seven, love. I let you sleep as late as I could."

Remus cursed under his breath and sat up with a moan, looking around. He seemed to have collapsed on the couch, as was his wont on Wolf Nights, and missed breakfast. That was fine with him; he felt sick to his stomach, courtesy of the way the world seemed to be spinning around him. He mumbled another curse and took a deep breath, trying to settle his stomach; Moon Day was like the world's worst hangover.

"Poor dear." Remus glanced up blearily as Dora knelt down, her hair fizzling to orange with worry. Even the color made him feel ill. "Love, I think you should take the day off…"

"No," he mumbled, shaking his head and fighting to stand, "No, I'm going to teach… just need to get dressed…"

He took one step and stumbled; Dora caught him around the shoulders with a change of roles that, at any other time, they would have found amusing. "Love, I really don't think you're well enough to–"

"Dora. We had a deal."

His wife bit her lip, making him feel awful, though he didn't retract the statement; in exchange for letting her stay with him during the transformations, Dora had promised not to coddle him any more than he asked her to on the full moon. She had grudgingly agreed, calling him a blasted fool, which Remus ignored; he had long ago promised himself that he would not allow his condition to make him a victim, and that meant getting up and going to work even when he'd much rather lay in bed all day sipping tea.

He choked down a piece of dry toast, got dressed with some difficulty, and kissed his wife and son goodbye. Stiff and limping, wishing dreadfully that it were a weekend, he made his way down towards his classroom. The weather was fair and it promised to be a lovely day, the pale pink dawn brushing gently through the windows and over the gray stones, but Remus was in no condition to appreciate it. His body ached, his thoughts were muddled, and the nausea had not gotten better upon standing up. Worse still, his biological knowledge told him that the symptoms would only get worse; his body was undergoing the first cycles of a positive feedback loop, hormone levels building higher and higher until the transformation, all while the energy conservation drove him into a deeper and deeper stage of fatigue.

Remus could hear the students chattering long before reaching the door, courtesy of his heightened sense of hearing; thankfully, they all quieted as he pushed the door open and shuffled inside. He managed a weary glance up and found that every eye was on him, fixed with worry. The professor blushed and tried to look stronger than he felt. His gaze found the back corner, and was surprised to see that Lavender Brown was present in her desk– equally pale and sickly-looking, it was true, her curly blonde hair tied back in a messy ponytail and her scarred face without a dusting of makeup to be seen, but present. Remus shot her a bare smile, but the girl was far too miserable to return it.

With effort, he hoisted his briefcase up onto the desk and opened it; thankfully he'd finished his class notes several days ago, so that he all had to do that day was read from the parchment. "Alright, so," he began, rather uninspiringly, "Today we will be, ah, beginning our first study in the defensive and offensive magical powers of sentient beings, beginning with–"

He blinked hard as the letters blurred momentarily in front of his eyes, cleared his throat, and continued. "–Beginning with the being you're most familiar with, which is to say, other wizards. During the first term we will be covering how to cast a patronus, shielding and disarming charms, and other lessons that were overlooked in your fifth year… identifying and defending against animagi and metamorphagi… how to withstand or fend off the more powerful forms of dark magic, including the imperius and cruciatus curses…"

Whispers were beginning to fill the air; Lupin stumbled over his words as he lost his concentration, the murmurings swirling in his mind:

 _"…Doesn't look well, does he? Should we do something?"_

 _"…This is exactly why you can't hire their kind…"_

 _"…What if he passes out?"_

"…And hopefully, at the end of the term, the practice of basic occlumency. Any questions?"

Thank Merlin, there were none, although there were plenty of questioning looks. Remus nodded and winced at the way it made his head pound. "Alright then… we'll be starting with disarming charms today. How many of you know how to…"

Oh, Merlin, he really didn't feel well. Maybe he should have stayed in bed. What he wouldn't give to be asleep right now, ignorant of pain and illness, only waking up to the smell of beef broth and his wife's hair as she crept inside, her anxious heart-shaped face appearing above him like an angel of mercy…

Remus realized the students were all looking at him with obvious confusion, and he cleared his throat. "Pardon?"

Several snickers came from the back row, and embarrassment swept through him, twisting in his stomach. "Er, know how to what, Professor?" Hermione inquired courteously.

"Oh." He blushed, prickling hot all over, and coughed. "Er, how many of you know how to–"

He stopped suddenly as he realized, far too late, that the feverish churning of his stomach was not due to shame. The room spun as the blood rushed from his face; he tried to brace himself against the desk and missed, stumbling sideways and collapsing onto the wastepaper basket. This in fact was fortunate, for in the next moment, his morning toast made its reappearance, accompanied by acid and bile and whatever else had been left in his stomach from the night before.

"Professor! Professor Lupin!"  
The students were crowding around; he could hear them, smell them, the press of distinct scents crowding around him like a cloud of cloying perfume, choking him and making him retch again dryly into the basket. The world was fading in and out of focus, stars dancing before his eyes, and in the moment before the gray nothingness overtook him he realized once again just how much he hated Moon Day.

* * *

…When Remus awoke, it was to the sound of wind and birds chirping and the fading, sweet humming of a tune which Madame Pomfrey had told him long ago was called _Adoro Te Devote._ He looked around dazedly and found himself in the bright, sunlit infirmary he knew so well, filled with the comforting smells of medical potions and fresh air and…

He turned as the third and fourth scents caught his attention. Dora didn't see him at first, smiling softly down at the sleeping Teddy in her arms. Remus, still feverish and dazed, stared at them without a word, lifted into a strange kind of euphoria.

Dora's warm chocolate eyes glanced up, and her face split into a grin. "Remus!"

"In the flesh," he whispered weakly.

"I'm glad you're awake. How are you feeling?"

"A little less like I've been run over by a herd of hippogriffs," he rasped. Dora smiled wryly.

"Just one hippogriff now?"

"Mm. Rotten bastard."

She actually laughed at that, as it wasn't often Remus cursed. "Madame Pomfrey's just left."

"I know. I heard her go." He struggled to sit up, but Dora reached over with her free hand and pushed him back down. It didn't seem to take much effort.

"None of that; she said you're to stay resting. Told me to threaten you with a sleeping potion if you didn't."

"Sounds like her," Remus sighed, leaning back against the pillows. "Is that what she gave Teddy?" Dora nodded. "What time is it?"

"A little past noon. You've been out for nearly four hours."

He groaned and closed his eyes; he'd been hoping he'd be well enough to go back to teaching, but there was no chance Madame Pomfrey was letting him leave the infirmary now. "Bloody fantastic."

"Serves you right, for trying to work today," she scolded, though not unkindly. "Remus, why won't you just take Moon Days off?"

"Because I'm a professor, not an invalid," he mumbled, though it didn't have half the conviction he'd intended.

"Well, you're an invalid today, and I don't care if I have to wrestle you back in myself," his wife retorted, tapping his chest, "you're staying in that bed until sundown."

Remus managed a ghost of a smirk. "Not today, darling; I've got a headache." Dora scowled and smacked his arm lightly, but she seemed relieved he was feeling well enough to make jokes. "How's Teddy?"

"He was fussy and spitting up until Madame gave him the potion, but he's doing alright now." She cupped his cheek with her free hand and tilted her head, lips pursed. "I hate seeing you two so sick. I wish there were something I could do…"

"It's alright," he whispered hoarsely. "My fault, really, for biting off more than I can chew…" He cringed at the memory of his students crowding around him, some looking at him with pity, others with disgust. It was hard to decide which he hated more. "I must have looked so pathetic," he muttered, mostly to himself. "None of them are ever going to take me seriously now."

"Don't go there," Dora scolded. "This wasn't your fault, Remus, and you're a wonderful teacher. Your students love you."

"Do they?" His eyes had darkened from honey-hazel to a dark amber. "All I've ever wanted to be, at least until I married you, was a teacher. But now… I can't handle a boggart, I pass out in class… let's face it, Dora, I'm a joke."

"Hm." He glanced over to see that Dora's face had grown thoughtful, her hair faded to a soft lavender. "Remus, did I ever tell you about what happened on my first stakeout?"

"No," he replied, startled by the shift in conversation.

"It's an awful story, really. I was twenty-one, just out of training, youngest auror in the office at that time. Anyhow, we'd gotten a tip-off about a group of druglocks in Birmingham who were mixing diluted billywig venom with heroine and selling it to the muggles. Moody took three of us down to sniff the place out and see if we couldn't bring them in. Since I had the least experience I got put on lookout. To this day I don't know what happened; one minute I was scoping the area, the next, I was waking up in some basement with the worst headache of my life– and I was a beater, mind you." Remus chuckled. "I found out later that the druglocks were holding me for ransom, but at the time, I didn't think I was going to make it out of there alive. I was terrified."

"What happened?"

"I still don't know all of it. All I remember is Kingsley opening the door and telling me everything was okay now. Later I found out that there had been a massive duel; that was how Moody lost his eye." Remus's own eyes widened, surprised. "I had never been so humiliated; I even thought about leaving the corps. The other officers thought so too, said if I was this clumsy and inept I should just take a desk job, instead of putting other, better aurors in danger."

"Harsh."

Dora shrugged. "Maybe. At the time, I thought they were right. Anyhow, later that week I worked up the courage to go visit Mad-Eye at St. Mungo's. I was so ashamed I couldn't even look him in the eyes– well, eye. He noticed and said he'd heard the rumors, that I was thinking about leaving the corps. And do you know what he said to me?" Remus shook his head, and Dora morphed her hair gray and her nose crooked, setting her now heavy-set eyebrows into her best scowl. "Now you listen to me, Auror Tonks," she growled. "I've seen a lot of good aurors drop out of the corps because they couldn't handle the pressure. They crack, go soft. Can't take the cold, hard fact that if they bugger up, it can get someone killed. And frankly, that's a bloody shame. Nobody but nobody has a perfect record. Not me, not you, and certainly not those puffed-up windbags in the office, you can take that from me."

Remus looked away. He knew exactly what Nymphadora was telling him, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

"Now if you want, you can hand over your badge and go find yourself a nice, cushy desk-job to slowly suffocate yourself in when you know full well you weren't made for it. Or you can put on your big-girl panties, pick yourself up by the bootstraps and get back to doing what's right. The choice is yours. If you want to quit, there's the door."

Her hair and face morphed back to normal, and she stared down at her husband with a piercing gaze. "So what'll it be, Remus?" she said coolly. "How much do you want this? Because honestly, it's up to you."

Her husband was silent for a long moment, and then sighed, smiling ruefully. "You channel Alastor remarkably, did you know that?"

Dora grinned back. "So you'll stay?"

"I'll stay– if only because I fear the wrath of Mad-Eye Moody if I refuse."

Dora laughed, switched to the edge of the bed and poked his shoulder. "Scooch over." Remus acquiesced, shifting his prone form so that Dora could lie down on her side next to him, cuddling Teddy in between them. He breathed in the comforting scent of her hair and closed his eyes again, counting himself at that moment the luckiest man in the world, werewolf or otherwise.

* * *

…Sister Irene "Poppy" Pomfrey was deep in thought when she returned to the infirmary, breviary in one hand and a case of potions vials in the other. Though it had been many years since she'd been Remus Lupin's primary healer, she still had a soft spot for the man in the far bed, and had added to her daily prayers a petition for his swift return to good health. Still, it had not been by prayers alone that the good Father Mungo had founded her order and cured so many of the sick and lame, so, thinking she would do well to check again on her patient, she set the vials aside and peeked behind the white curtain.

The sickly professor was still snoring softly on the bed, and curled up beside him was his wife, her hand resting gently on his chest and their infant child tucked between them. All three were sound asleep.

Smiling to herself, the healer closed the curtain and returned to her work, the sweet strains of the _Salve Regina_ filling the air.

* * *

"…and if you follow Coughlan's Rule of MediCharming, the cells will begin to rapidly divide."

Although the library was the preferred place of study for the Hogwarts pupils, it was not a particularly good place for study-groups, thanks to Madame Pince's fiercely enforced silence policy (there were rumors that she had been raised by Trappists, but no one had yet confirmed them), which had led the group of fourth-year Gryffindor girls to retreat to their dormitory. Hermione, Parvati and Ginny were all crowded onto the first's bed, while Lavender lay on her own, trying her best to listen.

"I still don't understand _why_ we can't just use an ordinary _engorgio_ charm," Parvati argued, frowning down at the charms textbook, which Lavender knew without looking contained several complicated equations and definitions. She grimaced as another wave of pain rolled through her body, biting her lip hard to not make a sound.

Hermione sighed, a tad exasperated at having to explain this for the third time. "Because _engorgio_ takes in sub-atomic particles from the surrounding environment to build new atoms. _Cresceros_ makes the cells replicate _themselves."_

"But why does it _matter?"_ Parvati's voice grated on her ears. The werewolf gritted her teeth and tried not to think of how satisfying it would be to punch her best friend in the mouth.

"It _matters_ because if you mess up the second you overgrow the bone. If you mess up the first, you run the risk of causing a nuclear fission accident _inside_ a magical being."

 _She's such a know-it-all,_ Lavender growled internally. _Would it kill her to take a day off?_ And none of them had even noticed she was in pain…

Ginny spoke up, still clearly clueless. "And that's a bad thing because…?"

Hermione sighed again, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Remind me to show you pictures of Chernobyl sometime. Alright, let's go over this again–"

"No!" The three jumped and looked over as Lavender slammed her hands down on her comforters. "I'm sick to death of charms and bones and stupid rules from stupid wizards in _stupid books!_ _So just SHUT UP!"_

The satisfaction at their stunned silence lasted only a moment, before she realized exactly what she'd said and turned bright red. "I-I mean- I don't–"

"Oh, Lavender, we're sorry," Parvati interrupted, much to the blonde's surprise. "We- we completely forgot, you're not feeling well, are you?"

"And here we are, going on and on– we can go down to the common room, if you like, and let you sleep?" Hermione suggested. "Would that help?"

"I– _nghah!"_ A sharp, cramping pain spread through her abdomen and up her spine, forcing her to curl over on her side. Tears prickled at her eyes as her friends surrounded her, worried.

"Lavender?"

"Lavender, are you okay?"

"I-I just- I–" The dam broke, and the young werewolf dissolved into tears. _"I j-just feel s-so a-a-awful!"_

The other three glanced around at each other. "How long until sunset?" Hermione inquired quietly.

"Three hours," Ginny replied. "Do you think we should–"

"I think so, yes. Lavender?" A cloud of brown frizz came into the werewolf's field of vision. "Lavender, do you think you can walk?"

"I-I–" She let out another whine and curled in tighter, shaking her head.

"Okay. We're going to get Madame Pomfrey to help you, alright?"

Lavender nodded tearfully, and Hermione quickly left the dormitory. Parvati and Ginny tried to comfort her, but Lavender flinched away. She didn't want to be touched. She just wanted the pain to go away…

A few minutes later Madame Pomfrey was standing at her bedside, checking her temperature with cool hands. "You poor dear, you're burning up," the nun said, shaking her head. "If I'd known it was going to be this bad I would have given you something at the beginning of the day… I don't think it wise to use the floo, but I should be able to levitate you down to the infirmary. Miss Granger, if you could fetch her books and a change of clothes?"

Lavender was by this point far too miserable to care what they did, even despite the strange looks she got from the other students as she was floated through the hallways towards the infirmary, wrapped in a blanket. All she knew was that she was grateful when Madame Pomfrey laid her down in an infirmary bed and gave her a potion tasting of strawberries, which immediately brought the pain down to a mild ache. "There you are, dear," the good sister said soothingly, patting her arm. "It should wear off before nightfall, so you'll be able to take your Wolfsbane then. Try to get some rest, hm? I'm afraid the sleeping potions don't mix well with that stuff, but I imagine you're tired enough as it is."

With a whispered reassurance from Lavender that she would try, the matron smiled sympathetically and left, pulling the privacy curtain. Lavender was just about to doze off when her keen hearing caught the whispers coming from the other side of the screen to her left:

 _"–Think that must be Lavender."_

 _"Yes. I'm surprised she wasn't in here earlier; I used to spend all off Moon Day in the infirmary…"_

 _"Used to?"_ the first teased, and that was when Lavender spoke up:

"Professor Lupin? Is that you?"

There was a moment's silence, and then a hand drew aside the white curtain to reveal not just the professor, but also his wife and infant child, who was sleeping fitfully in her arms. "Lavender," Remus Lupin said awkwardly. "I didn't realize you could hear us… Which, to be fair, was not a very bright assumption."

She managed a thin smile at the joke, and Mrs. Lupin cleared her throat. "I think I'll take a little walk with Teddy," she murmured to her husband, bending down to peck him on the lips. "Need to stretch my legs."

Lavender very much doubted that this was the auror's primary reason for leaving, but she didn't question it as the woman disappeared beyond the edge of the curtain. Lupin regarded the girl with an expression of unfortunate sympathy. "How are you feeling?" he asked quietly.

The younger werewolf grimaced. "Is it always this bad?" she croaked.

He shook his head. "It's harder when you're new, or at least, that's what I've heard. And some people just get it worse than others, like myself."

"'What you've heard?' Don't you remember?"

She knew immediately from the way his face fell that this was the wrong thing to say. "Er– well, no," he mumbled, looking away. "I've, ah, I've been this way for as long as I can remember, so…"

"Oh." Yes, she remembered now; hadn't the article said he'd been bitten at a young age? How young, Lavender wondered? She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked…"

"No, it's alright. I understand that you must be curious."

"And I'm, um, I'm sorry," she said, her own gaze falling to the blankets, unable to meet his eyes. "About… how I reacted last night…"

"You have nothing to apologize for," Remus reassured her. "I once broke my roommate's nose in a similar situation, convinced he was Greyback. I'm sure the werewolf scent wasn't very helpful, either."

She crossed her arms uncomfortably, as if she wanted to speak but wasn't sure how. "Lavender?" The professor questioned. "…Is there anything you want to talk about?"

"I'm fine," she whispered, and they both knew it was a lie.

"Really?" Lupin said softly. "Because I'm not."

The girl looked up, surprised. The man's hazel eyes were understanding and very, very sad.

"Professor, I'm so scared," she choked out, finally breaking. "I'm trying to be brave, I really am, but- but I don't know if I can live with this for the rest of my life, I'm not strong like you, I can't, I just can't…"

"You are very strong," he said firmly, "far stronger than you realize. I know it's difficult right now, believe me… but one day, you will wake up and realize that your life can still be a very happy one."

"I hate myself," she whispered, as if it were a confession. "I hate what I am."

Remus felt as if his heart had been squeezed in a vice. "I understand," he said again gently. "Really, Lavender, I do. But it's not a sin to be sick."

"I can't control it," she mumbled. "I can feel it, when it's angry… I'm scared it'll get out…"

"What you are feeling are heightened senses and emotions," he informed her. "They're a part of the disease. Believe it or not, they're meant to keep you alive."

"Keep me alive?"

"They make you more alert, as do the heightened reflexes and increased strength." He smiled thinly. "The few benefits of a horrid disease, I suppose. And it was right helpful for sneaking around the castle late at night."

She managed a very small giggle at that, and he was happy to see it. "So, it's not- not the wolf, trying to get out?"

"No. For a long time, I thought the same, but you'll find you feel happiness or excitement more intensely as well, not just fear or anger."

Lavender nodded, and then bit her lip. "And- and what about the- the nightmares?"

He sighed. "You'll probably have them for a while- perhaps for the next few months or so. I recommend taking a Dreamless Sleep every night for a while until they go away, but you'll likely still get them occasionally for the rest of your life."

Lavender swallowed. "I don't want to keep reliving that. It was bad enough, going through it once…"

"You won't. Eventually they'll fade, and grow fewer; I haven't had one in over a year now, and I woke up almost immediately."

"How old were you?" she asked hesitantly. "When you were…"

Lupin's eyes flickered away again. "…I was four," he admitted. "Almost five."

She covered her hand with her mouth, feeling suddenly ill. "You were-"

"Yes. But it's alright." He gave her a sad smile. "It does get easier, Lavender, I promise you. I learned to live with it, and so will you."

She shook her head, looking away. "I don't want to live with it. I want it gone."

"Believe me, so do I. But allow me to let you in on a secret a wise soul once told me, and which took me twenty long years to accept." She looked up uncertainly, and gold met gold as he looked her dead in the eyes. "This struggle is going to define you, Lavender, in one way or another. But how it does so is up to you. Courage isn't being unafraid, or denying there are problems; courage is looking pain and suffering in the eyes and allowing it to mold you into someone who is strong and gentle and kind. Knowing you, the battle is already half won."

The girl didn't know how to respond to this, so she didn't, merely remained silent. Lupin let the statement hang in the air for a moment, and then drew back. "Well. I suppose we'd best get some rest, shouldn't we? Long night and all that."

Lavender grimaced and nodded. The professor took his wand in hand and, with a half-hearted wave, closed the curtain between them. With a sigh, Lavender rolled over, wincing at the twinge in her stiff limbs, and let herself drift off…

* * *

 _"…Remus…"_

The man mumbled something under his breath and curled in deeper under his warm blankets.

 _"…Remus… love, you need to get up…"_

But why? The bed was so deliciously warm, and he felt so very tired…

 _"Remus, it's nearly moonrise."_

His eyes opened. The room around him was bathed in the golden glow of the sunset, and fear spiked through his heart, escaping his mouth in a shaking gasp. Sunset. Moonrise.

 _Oh Merlin, no._

"Oh, love," a voice sighed, and he looked over to find his wife sitting in the chair next to him, biting her lip. "I'm so sorry."

Remus sat up, slowly, his head pounding, bones aching. Even his teeth hurt, and his stomach was twisting itself into knots. Across the curtain, he could hear Madame Pomfrey's gentle encouragements to Lavender, who it seemed had started to cry. Remus wanted to cry, too, but instead he clenched his fists and summoned his nerve. _This is the way things are. You can either hide from it like a child, or you can stand and face it like a man._ A noise drew his attention, and he looked over to see that Teddy had awoken and was fussing again, face red, tiny red fists beating at the air. Maybe not today, but someday, Teddy would look up to his father on these nights, trying to find his courage in Remus's own. His resolve hardened. _For your son, you will be a man._

On the other side of the curtain, Lavender was tearfully wiping at her eyes, trying to find the strength to get up and put on her dressing robe. "Professor McGonagall will be down in a minute," Madame Pomfrey informed her, helping her dress. "She'll take you to the Room of Requirement, and then help you back here in the morning."

Lavender nodded with a sniffle, and glanced over to see the professor's wife supporting him as they walked past, Lupin's face stiff and resigned. She swallowed, wishing she could have his composure.

Soon enough, McGonagall did arrive, dressed in a set of fresh robes and with her hair in a simple braid down her back. "Are you well enough to walk?" she questioned. Lavender nodded; thankfully the pain had subsided some over her hours of rest. Madame Pomfrey gave her a vial of Wolfsbane, which she gulped down with a grimace, and then, limping and leaning on McGonagall's shoulder, she followed the professor over to the floo in Pomfrey's private quarters. A moment's dizzying ride later, they stepped out of the fireplace in the arrithmancy office.

"Right this way, dear," McGonagall said kindly, helping the girl along down the stairs and through the corridor. She left Lavender to rest against the wall as she paced three times back and forth in front of the wall which hid the Room, and then turned to her as a pair of strong, wrought-iron doors appeared.

"This is where you will be transforming tonight, Miss Brown," she explained calmly. Lavender felt better for that; if the headmistress could speak about it so evenly, perhaps the werewolf could face it with similar poise. "It will be soundproofed and you won't be able to leave, but I will be able to get in if you need me. Bark twice and the door will open on my side." Lavender nodded. "You'd best go inside, then; we've only a few minutes until moonrise."

At the reminder, the girl froze. Her hands began to shake; tears filled her eyes. As she let out a terrified gasp, McGonagall murmured, "Oh, child…" and moved to embrace her. Lavender buried her face in the woman's shoulder, trembling like a leaf. "I know," the professor sighed, patting her back. "I know, my dear. But you must be brave." She drew back and held the girl at an arm's length, tilting her chin up and giving her a sad smile. "You are, after all, a Gryffindor."

Lavender took a deep breath and nodded, swallowing hard. McGonagall squeezed her shoulder and then nodded to the door. "Off you go, then. I won't leave this door until dawn, I promise."

"Thank you," she whispered. "Truly, professor." McGonagall inclined her head, and Lavender turned to the doors, drew another breath, and slipped inside, shutting the door behind her.

The room beyond was one of such stunning beauty that the werewolf stopped short, momentarily forgetting why she was there. The back wall was not a wall at all, but rather composed of great, arching cathedral-style windows, which showed the starry sky to the east (and, she realized, would show both the moon and sun as they rose). To the right was a crackling fire in an engraved stone hearth, before which lay a pile of cushions, and to the right a small shelf, quite high up, on which already lay her clothes for the next morning. Lavender set her wand on it, too, and, after finding a note there in McGonagall's handwriting which reassured her that the windows were only translucent on her side, undressed and left her used clothes there, too. Finding a blue fleece blanket not far away, she wrapped herself tightly in the soft cloth and sat down on the cushions before the warm fire, shivering. Waiting.

It couldn't be as bad as she remembered it, could it? That sort of pain, why, anyone would go mad, having to suffer it over and over again… and Professor Lupin wasn't mad, was he? But he was sad, so very sad… was that what happened to a person after they were bitten? Would she be that way, too? Would she ever be truly, carelessly, freely happy ever again? But he had sworn to her that life did go on, that she could be happy… Would she ever be able to marry? Have a family? What if no one ever loved her the way Mrs. Lupin loved him? What if this, here, now, was the best her life would ever be? What if–

Without warning, white pain split through her bones. Lavender screamed and collapsed onto her side, eyes rolling back in her head. Another blaze of agony raced through her veins, blinding her, an undying cruciatus, oh, please, she didn't want this, she didn't want this, she wanted to die–

She screamed again as her fingers buckled, fur sprouting, limbs thrashing uncontrollably as the pain seared through her like the claws of some great beast. She sobbed, cried out, begged for death, pleaded for release…

In the end, when it was over, she lay there for a long while, just breathing. Whimpers of pain and sorrow escaped her canine throat, and, prompted by an urge both foreign and familiar, she let out a howling cry.

In the east, the white moon rose.

* * *

Remus pushed himself up slowly, limbs still aching from the change. Through his nose he drew a deep breath, furry ears twitching side to side. The scent and crackle of burning pine filled him, and he knew that Dora had lit a fire in the other room. There was, too, the soft sound of crying. He cringed at that, which in his wolfish form looked rather like a sickened snarl. He hated that she had to hear him go through such torture, but there was nothing else for it; it was the only way she could know whether it was safe to let him out.

On that note, he clambered stiffly to his paws and limped over to where Dora had left one of her sweaters folded on the floor. Remus would have smiled if he could have; the sweater in question was woolen and bubblegum pink, adding a little color to the otherwise gray, crumbling bedroom of the Shrieking Shack. Summoning his will, he lowered his muzzle and snuffled at the soft material.

Instantly, every instinct flared to life, a dizzying cacophony of impulses filling his brain. The comfort of his wife's scent was overridden by a violent onslaught of images: teeth tearing into flesh, a howl in the air, blood in his mouth–

 _No!_ The man struggled and snapped his powerful jaws, fighting for control over his own mind. _No. You are a man, Remus Lupin, not an animal._ But the moon was high, and he craved the kill. _Not at that price. Not at any price._ He couldn't do it, he was too weak, and the beast was so strong– _This is no time for self-pity. Come on, Lupin, get ahold of yourself!_

Slowly, oh, so very slowly, he wrestled the wicked urges back under his own control, until at last they quieted, admitting their defeat. His stomach still twisted and his throat still thirsted for blood, but his mind, his heart, was in control. _The heart of man overcomes the claws of the beast,_ Remus thought to himself with irony. _Perhaps my forefathers did know something, after all._

Down below in the impoverished old living room, Dora sat on the sagging couch, sniffling to herself and trying to coax the fire higher with her wand. She hated listening to the transformation– hearing her husband scream and howl in agony was almost more than she could bear– but in the end, it was worth it. The wolf cub in her arms fidgeted and she looked down, ready to set him on the ground at a moment's notice, but Teddy merely sniffled his tiny black nose and didn't awaken. Dora relaxed; the sedative had worked, then, and would continue to work for at least another hour, which meant that, although her infant son couldn't take Wolfsbane (not that it would help, being that Teddy was at no age to control his own behavior anyhow), he at least didn't have to experience the torture of the transformation every full moon.

She lifted her head as a sudden sound met her ears: three short yips from the door at the top of the stairwell. Dora held her breath, waiting.

 _Yip- bark._

 _Yip- yip- bark- yip._

 _Yip._

 _SAFE._ Dora let out a sigh of relief and set Teddy down on the couch before hurrying up the stairs, wand stowed in her back pocket with her muggle semi-automatic in hand. She had no doubt that her husband's moral fortitude was such that he would never tell her to open the door unless he knew for certain he could control his baser impulses, but he'd insisted, reminding her it was better safe than sorry.

"Remus?" she called, undoing the outside-facing lock and opening the door a crack. "You okay?"

Her husband let out a soft bark, and she smiled, opening the door wider and putting the gun back in its holster, though still within reach. "Teddy's downstairs. Didn't even wake up." She heard him let out a sigh of relief through his nose. "I'm going to go down the stairs now, alright?"

He barked again. Being that the full moon tended to render conversation a bit difficult, the pair had devised a slow but workable system of communication: one bark meant yes, two barks meant no (lots of barking meant, "I'm scared I'm going to eat you," but thankfully they'd never had to use that one). For anything more complicated, the werewolf would relay his message through Morse code.

Dora made her way backwards down the stairs, one step at a time. It was another one of Remus's rules: she was never, ever to turn her back to him while he was transformed. When she reached the bottom, she called up, "Okay, I'm down!" and soon after a large gray wolf came limped out of the bedroom. He trotted down the stairs and then, careful to remain in front of her, lumbered over to the sleeping Teddy. After giving the pup a sniff, he sighed again, circled his son a few times, and then lay down around him in front of the fire.

"You were limping there. Stiff, then?" she observed, sitting down beside them. Remus shrugged his shoulders and nodded. "I could try something to get rid of that, if you like."

Remus frowned, shook his head and let out two very emphatic barks, having had far too much experience with his wife's household magic in the past. Dora huffed and rolled her eyes. "It's not a spell! And honestly, I'm an auror; just because I can't cast a folding charm doesn't mean I can't do some basic medimagic." Remus ducked his head, clearly apologetic, and she chuckled. "Oh, I'm not mad, love. Take a joke, will you?"

He let out several soft snorts, which she knew was his version of laughing, and the auror faded off into a thoughtful silence, petting him along the back and rubbing circles onto the joints. Remus sighed in relief, but didn't try to communicate anything more. About ten minutes passed in this manner, before Dora said quietly, "How do you think Lavender's doing?"

Remus glanced up, the firelight flickering on his somber hazel eyes. Dora nodded. "Yeah. Stupid question." He shook his head, and she smiled ruefully, before her smile faded. "That poor girl… she must be so frightened."

Remus beat out a rhythm with his tail, and after a moment or two she realized what it was: _M-C-G-N-G-L._ "I know she has McGonagall, but it's not the same, is it? I just… I wish there were some way we could make this easier for her."

Remus began to wag his tail again, and she waited as he spelled out his reply: _NEVER EASY._

"I know. Believe me, I know." Dora sighed and went back to petting his head, scratching behind his ears. Remus rested his head on his paws, saddened by the thought that some poor soul was suffering as he suffered, so near, and neither he nor anyone else could help her. As he watched the logs in the fireplace burnt down from gold to scarlet coals, he slipped into a daze, drifting in and out of consciousness. The wolf rarely slept, but it was easier to rest, curled up in front of a warm fire, listening to the wind and the cooing of doves in the old house's eaves, his wife's gentle fingers running through his fur…

"Remus. Remus, he's waking up."

The wolf opened his amber eyes and raised his head. Against his side the small wolf cub was stirring, his tiny paws twitching against the carpet. Remus snuffled his head and the cub opened his eyes, peering up at his father with an innocent confusion. Remus smiled inwardly and nudged him with his nose, play-biting the cub's snout. Teddy squealed happily and squirmed away, yipping and dancing about. Dora giggled.

The reaction was nearly instantaneous; Teddy turned, startled, and crouched low, baring his teeth with a growl. Dora quickly pulled her legs up onto the couch, her face falling, and Remus felt his heart miss a beat.

 _Oh, Teddy…_

But then Dora did the unexpected: she reached down and pulled the squirming pup into her arms. Remus let out a sharp bark of surprise, but the auror didn't seem to notice, not even as the wolf cub growled again, nipping at her arms and hands (she had, thankfully, worn her dragon-hide jacket and gloves, in preparation for just such a situation). Instead she tugged on his tail and petted his ears, chuckling whenever he got his tiny fangs around one of her fingers. "Oh, stop looking at me like that," she scolded the shocked Remus. "He's not going to bite through the leather, and besides, look how cute he is!" She grinned and rolled Teddy over onto his belly, rubbing the gray fur; the cub clawed at her covered hands and wrists, clearly annoyed, and the auror giggled again.

Still deeply unsettled, Remus barked again, and his wife huffed. "Alright, fine. Here, your turn." She set the cub down on the floor, looking entirely unconcerned when the cub yipped and growled, crouching down as if he were about to attack a mouse. Dora pulled what appeared to be a rolled-up sock out of her pocket and dropped it on the floor; the pup sprung forward and began to roll around with it, tearing at the cloth with little growls. The auror laughed again, and her carefree attitude managed to calm Remus's fear and guilt a little.

Soon enough Teddy was worn out by the game, and he wandered over to the window at the back of the sitting room, looking up at the great white moon. Remus trotted over and sat down beside him. A melancholy feeling arose in his heart, and, lifting his snout towards the sky, he let out a mournful howl.

An odd noise joined the haunting bay, and he looked over, surprised. Teddy let out another shrill howl, his tiny eyes half-closed. Then he sneezed and looked up to his father, as if expecting praise.

And praise Remus did. Barking happily and dancing up and down on his back paws, he rushed back over to the couch, where Dora was laughing to herself. "Well done," she teased. "You've taught your son to howl at the moon."

He barked again, excited, and ran around the couch before trotting back over to his infant son, who was looking at him with a good deal of confusion. Remus howled again, and Teddy did the same. Soon the two were rolling about, chasing each other around the empty room and nipping at each other's ears. Dora's laughter echoed from behind them, egging the pair on.

When at last Teddy grew tired of the game, laying down on the hardwood with a sense of definitive exhaustion, Remus picked him up by the scruff of his neck and carried him back over to the fire. Teddy snuffled the air in his mother's direction, howled again, and then curled up and appeared to fall asleep. Remus smiled at him with pride.

"I told you, didn't I?" He turned his head, and saw Dora smiling at him with tears in her brown eyes. "I told you everything would be okay."

Remus smiled again, rolled his eyes, and let out one quiet bark in agreement. He circled Teddy twice and then lay down, curling around the cub once more. Dora slipped off the couch and knelt down beside him. "…I wish people could see you the way I see you," she said softly. "Wizards hate you for being bitten, werewolves hate you for not biting others… it's not _fair,_ Remus." She looked him in the eyes, meeting his wolfish golden gaze with her own and brushing the fur by his jaw with her thumb. "You're so good. And I wish everyone else could see that."

 _Good?_ Remus wasn't sure of that; on nights like these, it was harder to believe than ever. In his mind, in his heart, he knew it was true, or at least, that he was doing his best… but when the images of the kill drifted through his mind, when the scent of even his own wife made his mouth start to water, he began to wonder. _Can someone like me ever really be good?_

But then Dora looked at him with that sad, sweet, loving smile, and said the words that gave him all the courage he needed to try. "I love you, Remus."

Remus ducked his head, looking down at his sleeping son, and thumped his tail in pattern:

 _I LOVE YOU TOO._

* * *

Lavender heard her own screams subside into hiccupping sobs as the sun rose above the eastern horizon, great and scarlet and signifying that the morning had come at last. Her tears slowly died away as the room around her filled with a golden radiance, and she sat up, shielding her eyes from the dawn. Slowly, stiffly, she arose, watching as the light filled the world below her, the mountains and the forests turning from black to emerald in the morning light. A sense of relief filled her heart. _It was over._ The darkness had passed, and dawn had come.

Turning from the window, the girl made to dress in her uniform and, finding a small mirror and brush beneath them, did her best to untangle the golden curls and tie them back with the scarlet ribbon she'd found in her shirt-pocket. Then, slipping on her shoes and taking hold of her wand, she turned to the great iron doors. Without a sound, they swung on their hinges inward

In the hallway beyond, a gray tabby with strange markings around her green eyes got to her feet, stretched, and sat down. In the next moment, Professor McGonagall rose to her feet. "Miss Brown," she said courteously. "How are you feeling?"

"A bit shaky," she admitted.

"That's to be expected. Ah, your arm." Lavender glanced down and immediately turned pink; she hadn't noticed she was still bleeding from a pair of twin bite marks on her forearm, where she'd gnawed at herself in an effort to stave off the hunger cravings. She was terribly embarrassed, but it seemed McGonagall had prepared for just such a need; she retrieved a bottle from her pocket filled with what looked like liquid silver and uncorked the bottle, using a kerchief to spread a little onto the marks. Lavender let out a sharp gasp of pain as the silver cauterized the wounds, but then sighed as the cooling feeling of dittany took effect. "There," the headmistress said calmly, wiping away the excess potion and any remaining traces of blood; the wounds looked already several days old. "Now I imagine you'd like some breakfast; do you need help down to the Great Hall, or can you manage on your own?"

"I'll be alright. Thank you, Professor."

"Naturally. On you go, then." Lavender turned and began to head towards the stairs, when the headmistress called out, "Miss Brown?" She turned, surprised, and McGonagall smiled. "You showed a remarkable amount of courage last night. Fifty points to Gryffindor."

Lavender blinked, astonished, and then grinned. "I… I don't know what to say. Thank you again, Professor."

The witch inclined her head. "Have a good day, Miss Brown."

"And you, Professor."

As the young woman hurried towards the Great Hall, path lit by the rosy dawn streaming through the windows, she thought that perhaps she had discovered something which had not been apparent to her before– indeed, was not apparent to most people, werewolf or wizard alike. Perhaps her life was not an impossible choice between the misery and loneliness of self-loathing, and the wretchedness of giving into the beast, of handing herself over to unnatural passions and evil desires. Perhaps, she mused, perhaps there was another way.

"Lavender!" A voice caught her ears, and she looked over to see Parvati and Padma waving at her from the entrance to the Great Hall. Lavender grinned and hurried over. "How're you feeling?" Padma asked.

"A little stiff," she admitted, "but I'll be alright. Thanks for waiting for me."

"We've got your books right here," Parvati reassured her, lifting Lavender's satchel off the ground. "And Padma has your cloak." The Ravenclaw nodded, patting her own overstuffed schoolbag. "Let's get something to eat, yeah?"

"Good idea. Potions is no fun on empty stomach," Lavender agreed, and the sisters giggled. Together they walked into the Great Hall, chattering, ignoring the curious or hostile looks, and Lavender smiled to herself.

Yes, perhaps there was a better way, after all.

* * *

"Y'know, this place isn't so bad," Dora called over her shoulder, voice mixing with the sound of bacon eggs in the pan. "We could make the move out here permanently."

Remus snorted, bouncing Teddy on his lap and feeding the boy another spoonful of mushed apricots. "You should've seen it before McGonagall had it fixed up."

"Well, the claw marks on the wall are a little disconcerting." She walked over, and Remus made a point of leaning out of the way of the hot frying pan as Dora moved to push the bacon onto the plate. "But we could always repaint."

"Hm. Pass."

"Yeah, I think the apartment's a bit nicer. Still…" She leaned close and murmured in his ear, "Pretty soon Teddy's not going to be oblivious, love…"

Remus blushed and covered his son's ears, rather unnecessarily. "That's what silencing and locking charms are for, Dora. And we are _not_ turning the Shrieking Shack into a love nest."

She huffed, heading back to the stove. "Spoilsport." Remus chuckled and stole a piece of bacon. "You know," Dora added, returning to the table, "We never did get a proper honeymoon."

"We never had the _money_ for a proper honeymoon."

"It needn't be anywhere expensive," she pointed out. "We could pop down to some little seaside village, leave Teddy with the Weasleys … two weeks, all to ourselves…"

Remus considered this. "That… would actually be nice," he admitted.

"We could go to Llanbedrog." He wrinkled his nose, and she laughed. "I suppose it's not much of a vacation when you grew up there, is it?"

"Not really, no. Besides, I think the Lowells might not take kindly to me asking if I could have the cottage back for a few weeks."

"Probably not, no," she agreed. "Well then, what about France?"

"Mm. Or Italy?"

"Ireland?"

"Spain?"

"I know." He snapped his fingers. "Iceland."

"No," she said firmly. "I want to go somewhere with a beach."

"It's an island, Dora."

"A _warm_ beach. White sand, crystal waters…"

"So it's settled then." He leaned forward with a grin. "We're going to Greece."

She gasped. "Oh, Greece! That would be wonderful! We could see the Parthenon, and the Acropolis…"

They were still debating the specifics of their hypothetical honeymoon when they left the Shrieking Shack, Dora shrugging on her scarlet robes. "Duty calls, love," she said with a sigh, "Oh, and McGonagall told me to tell you she canceled your class this morning."

"What? But–"

"No arguments. Besides, someone needs to watch Teddy."

He gave her a look. "You scheduled work early on purpose, didn't you?" Dora winked, and he sighed. "Alright, alright. I concede defeat."

"Knew you would. Love you, darling." She pecked him on the lips and broke off in the direction of the outgoing gate.

Remus hefted the sleepy Teddy up in his arms as she disappeared past the gate. "Well, little man, how's about you and I go for a walk?" he inquired. Before Dora, he would never have had the energy to do such the day after a full, but somehow her presence always made it easier to relax. In truth, she made him feel younger. "Would you like that, hm?"

Teddy yawned, and Remus laughed, heading off towards the Black Lake. As he did so, he caught sight of a group of students, clad in their cloaks against the morning chill, following after a rather pudgy old man. They seemed to be headed towards the forest. Intrigued, Remus redirected his course.

"Ah, Professor Lupin!" Slughorn called as he caught sight of the younger man. "Good morning! I thought you had a class?"

"I did, but it seemed my wife and McGonagall have been conspiring against me." He noticed that the students, particularly the female ones, were all fixated on Teddy; Remus chuckled and asked the rather enthusiastic Hermione Granger if she'd like to hold him.

As the other young ladies crowded around the head girl, cooing and watching the boy's hair change color, he caught sight of Harry's eye. James's son grinned. "Morning, Professor."

"Morning, Harry, Ron." The redhead gave him a joking salute, and Remus laughed. "Well, Professor Slughorn, where are you all headed today?"

"Ah, well, it was such a fine morning that I thought I'd take the students out specimen-hunting for a change," said Slughorn cheerfully. "As it happens, we're looking for wolfsbane, because–"

"-It's always the most potent after the full," Lupin finished. "I did remember one thing from your class, Professor."

"Possibly the worst student in the class," Slughorn stage-whispered; the other students giggled.

"Well, you needn't go on a wild goose-chase; I happen to know where a patch is not far from here," Remus said with a shrug. "I can take you there if you like."

"Wouldn't you get sick?" a voice inquired from the back. Remus peered over the heads to see Lavender Brown looking back at him, a little tired but otherwise none the worse for wear.

"Well, I'm not intending to roll around in it– and I'd advise the same to you, Miss Brown." She giggled. "But no, so long as I stay a few paces back I should be alright. Professor, may I?" Slughorn gestured for him to take the leave, and Remus started off in the direction of the trees, the students following behind him.

The forest was full of interesting scents, including rotting leaves and moss and the morning mist, but Lupin was interested in catching only one. About five minutes in he paused at a tree, frowning thoughtfully, and then took a right. "I think it's this way," he called back. "Mind you, it's been a few years, and I usually tended to avoid it, but–"

He stopped short, eyes flying wide. The students glanced around at each other, confused, and then a soft gasp came from the back. Everyone turned to see that Lavender Brown had gone very pale. She stumbled backwards and braced her hand against a tree.

"What is it?" a voice demanded; Draco Malfoy had made the connection, and was looking between the two werewolves with apprehension.

Lupin's hands had started to shake; his face was frozen, mouth half-open. A harsh, metallic scent had filled his nostrils, stinking like a fresh kill. A thousand images suddenly filled his mind: a woman with brutish features but kind eyes, laughing as she picked up a little dark-haired girl and swung her around in her arms; a she-wolf nuzzling against a male beneath the moonlight; a pastor murmuring the marriage rites as she placed her hands into those of the grinning man before her-

 _"Mallory,"_ he gasped, and his eyes filled with tears.

The class began to murmur at this, whispered questions of _who is Mallory?_ and _What is it, Lavender? What's going on?_ But Remus was still reeling with shock. It couldn't be– not Mallory– Greyback would _never–_

"Professor?" Harry's voice broke through the haze of disbelief. "Professor, what's going on?"

At last, Remus managed to turn to the students; they started to see that his eyes had gone bright yellow, his face dangerously pale. "Blood," he rasped.

The students gasped; Slughorn had turned white. "Blood?" he questioned hoarsely.

Remus nodded, eyes watering. "And it's familiar, it's–" The cloying, metallic scent choked him for a moment; it was almost too much to bear. "You need to go. All of you, now."

Slughorn realized that this was no time to argue his authority and quickly began to round up the other students, urging them back towards the castle. Remus caught the arms of the three nearest students, who without even asking had remained behind. "Take Teddy back to the school and find McGonagall," he ordered. "Ron, Hermione, put in a floo call to the Auror Office; Harry, bring McGonagall and Pomfrey to the castle border with the blood ward papers. Tell her it has to do with Mallory Lowell."

"Professor, what-?"

 _"Harry James Potter I am not arguing with you on this, get the others and go!"_ The young man started to hear his full name and blinked again when he saw that the teacher's face was full of fear, nostrils flared, knuckles white around his wand.

"Right," he said hastily. "McGonagall and Pomfrey, right, Professor?"

"With the ward papers." He didn't look back, eyes still scanning the forest around them, as if something was there that shouldn't be. Harry nodded again and hurried after the others.

As Ron and Harry left, he heard a low voice say at his side, "Is he here, Professor?" He glanced down to find Hermione Granger watching him with wide eyes, Teddy still held tightly in her arms.

"I don't know. _Go,_ Hermione. Quickly."

She bit her lip, squeezed his arm briefly in solidarity, and dashed off. As quickly as she could, she caught up with Lavender, who had gone very pale. "What was it?" she demanded in a low voice. "What did he smell?"

"Blood," Lavender croaked. "Lots of it. And it– it was werewolf blood, not–"

"Do you think it was–"

"No. It wasn't him. But he could be close." Her hands were shaking; Parvati and Padma each grabbed one and pulled her quicker still down the green, the young witch looking positively faint with terror.

Back in the forest, the teacher lifted his face to the wind. It was coming from the southeast, and as far as he could tell there was only one scent. "So where did you go, you bastard?" he muttered, ears perked.

Nothing. Wind in the branches. Wand still at the ready, he took off running through the trees, following the smell of blood on the wind. Within moments he'd passed the border of the wards, marked by a crumbling wall of stones; within a few more, he stumbled into a clearing and skidded to a stop.

The grass was covered in blood, leading in a long streak to a pale, naked woman, lying face-down on the ground. Remus's breath hitched; he hurried over and dropped to his knees. "Mallory," he gasped, rolling her over, "Mallory can you hear m–"

His voice faded off into a tremble as he saw the damage done. Fresh fang and claw marks covered her body, most of them scoring her back and shoulders, but one particularly vicious swipe had opened up her belly, and a long, oddly shaped strip of skin was missing, stretching from her ribs to her lower thigh. Remus gagged and turned away, wanting to vomit at the smell and the gory sight. Covering his mouth with one hand, he pressed the other under her neck and let out a gasped sob of relief. Beneath his fingers pulsed a weak but persistent heartbeat.

"Alright, Mallory," he muttered, "if you can hear me, I need you to hold on to that. If you can just hold onto that, you'll be alright… I'm going to bring you to the castle, we have a healer there, she can help you…" He didn't know if that were true; Madame Pomfrey's skills in healing werewolf wounds were incredible, but this was near to needing muggle-style surgery. "Alright, I'm going to have to lift you… I'm afraid I haven't any magic left, so I'm going to carry you. You're going to be fine, Mallory, just hold on…" He lifted the bleeding woman into his arms and hurried as fast as he dared back towards the remains of the old wall.

* * *

Back inside the castle, the trio hurried around the corner and stopped in front of the golden griffin, breathing heavily. The statue blinked at them, decidedly unimpressed. _"Password?"_

"Tell her it's an emergency," said Hermione breathlessly. The gargoyle closed its eyes, and a few seconds later, it moved aside. The three dashed up the stairs and burst into the headmistress's office.

McGonagall took one look at them and sighed. "What is it this time?"

"Professor Lupin," Harry stammered. "H-he smelled blood in the forest- said you needed to bring the ward papers–"

"Blood? Whose blood?"

"Don't know- I think- he said it had to do with someone named Mallory Lowell?"

The headmistress's face turned grim. Rising to her feet, she drew her wand and tapped the top right drawer in her desk. Even Ron gawped when he saw her pull out a silver-gripped revolver and leather holster, fastening the latter around her waist. She checked the ammunition, retrieved the ward papers, and then said in a tone sharp as broken glass, "Potter, put in a call to the Auror Office; make sure to ask for Nymphadora specifically. Weasley, Granger, lock the door behind me when I go. Whatever you do, do _not_ remove Edward Lupin from this room, do you understand?"

The three nodded, shocked, and the headmistress swept from the room, drawing her wand and sending a cat patronus flying down the steps in search of the infirmary.

Remus Lupin was beyond grateful to see both the headmistress and the infirmarian at the crumbling wall when he arrived. Both let out a gasp as he stumbled into view. "My word," Madame Pomfrey stammered, rushing forward. "What happened to–"

"Greyback." He didn't need to speak another word. The healer quickly set to work on stopping the internal bleeding, and McGonagall took advantage of the excess blood to add Mallory's name to the list of approved personnel who could cross the castle wards. Soon after, Madame Pomfrey had conjured a stretcher and blanket, leaving McGonagall and Lupin to follow after, faces so hard and severe that any student unfortunate enough to cross their paths hastily scampered away.

* * *

"Remus."

The man didn't move, his strong jaw and sharp nose set in an motionless profile, eyes staring down at the sleeping woman before him.

"Remus. Love, look at me."

The defense professor looked over. Dora had knelt down beside his chair and now reached out to touch his cheek. "This wasn't your fault," she insisted. "You did everything for them that you could."

"I'm their alpha," Remus muttered. "I should have been there. I should have stopped this."

"If you had, he would have killed you on sight."

"Then I would have died doing what was right!" he snarled, standing; Dora merely watched him with sad eyes. "I'm supposed to protect them, Dora! To lead them! That is my duty to my pack and I _abandoned_ them!"

"You did no such thing," she retorted sternly, rising to her feet. "You gave them a home, Remus. You gave them a future. _This was not your fault."_

He struggled for several moments, and then looked back down to the woman in the bed. Mallory, thankfully, had survived thanks to Pomfrey's intervention, but Remus's stomach still twisted with fear and anger at what could have been. He'd known that Greyback was a monster, but this? He had thought that this was even beyond him.

 _You should have known better,_ the thought to himself bitterly. _You out of anyone should have known better._

Just as he was about to give in and sit back down, both he and Dora were startled to see a silvery bird fly in through the wall and settle on the edge of Mallory's bed. "Theron!" Remus exclaimed, dropping to a knee to look the magpie in the eyes. "You got my message?"

 _"We were hiding away,"_ the patronus replied, _"Remus, we were attacked- I have the children, but Mallory-"_

"Mallory's here, Theron; she's in a bad way, but she'll live."

The magpie let out a strangled sort of gasp, nearly crying in relief. _"Thank you. Thank you…"_

"Come quickly; I'll have the headmistress meet you with the wards to let you in."

The magpie nodded and vanished into a cloud of smoke; Remus sent his own wolf patronus dashing off in search of the Headmistress, and then, with a sigh of relief, settled back into the chair. Dora squeezed his shoulder, bouncing a sleepy Teddy on her hip. "It's going to be alright, Remus, don't you worry," Madame Pomfrey called from where she was filling medicine bottles with various colored potions. "That's a strong young lady there; she'll be up an about in no time."

Remus nodded stiffly and said not a word.

 _"Mummy!"_

The whole of the infirmary jumped as a small, dark-haired child rushed into the room, nearly leaping onto the bed. Remus quickly caught her around the stomach before she could land. "Lucy! Lucy, calm down!"

"No! _Mummy!"_ the girl began to bawl, weeping and beating at his arms. _"Mu-mmy!"_

"Mummy is going to be fine," Remus replied. "But she's hurt right now, Lucy; if you jump on her she'll hurt even more."

The girl let out a little noise and buried her face in his jumper, still crying. Remus rubbed her back soothingly, murmuring comforting words in an effort to calm the distraught child.

"Professor?"

He looked down; an older boy was standing at the side of the bed, dark-haired like the girl and clearly frightened. "Is Mum going to be okay?"

"Your mother will be fine, Charles. We have one of the best healers in the country helping her."

"Remus! Charles, Lucy!"

All three turned as Theron rushed in. A blond boy of about twelve followed behind, tight-mouthed, and after him McGonagall and Professor Slughorn. "Oh, Mallory," Theron gasped, hurrying to the bedside and kneeling down beside her, taking her limp hand and pressing it to his mouth. "What happened, Remus? How did you find her? Has she said anything? How much blood did she lose?"

"Theron, for goodness sakes, calm _down!"_ Remus said sharply, and then glanced meaningfully to the children. The man took a shaking breath and nodded. "Mallory apparated here to escape," Remus continued, now a bit more gently. "We found her on the edge of the forest, near Hogsmead; she was bleeding heavily, but our healer managed to patch her up. She hasn't woken up yet, but she'll be alright."

"Apparated? But she can't– she never learned how–"

"She splinched herself rather badly," Madame Pomfrey interjected, walking over. "And I imagine she was in no shape to be doing so, considering the beating she's taken. She must have been desperate to try."

"Splinched?" Charles inquired curiously, frowning at the odd word.

At the same moment all the adults became suddenly aware that the children were still in the room, and Remus cleared his throat. "Michael, why don't you take your brother and sister down to the kitchens, hm?"

Thankfully, the oldest boy understood, and quickly began to tell his brother and sister of all the good things he'd heard the house elves at Hogwarts could make. Remus gave him a grateful nod as the boy led the other two out of the room. One by one, the adults all turned to each other.

"Theron. What happened?" Remus said at last, but the authority in his tone made it apparent that this was no request.

The man wiped his eyes and stood, still pale and shaken. "He came for us, Remus," he croaked. "I don't know how he knew we were there, but then all of a sudden he was there at Lupin Castle–"

"Lupin Castle?" Slughorn broke in, turning to the man who'd always been to him an image of poverty. "Your family owns a castle?"

"No, my family _owned_ a castle," said Remus shortly, irritated that someone had interrupted his conversation with the man who was indubitably his beta. "There's not much left to it now save for the ruins. What happened next, Theron?"

"She told me to run," he choked. "To take the children, and– I should never have left us, Remus, but the moon was rising–" He broke off in a shuddering sob and covered his face with his hand.

"But why?" McGonagall demanded, stepping forward. "Why would he attack Lupin Castle if he knew Remus is here?"

"He wasn't looking for me," Remus said with a weary sigh. "I gave the Lowells my cottage in Llanbedrog. They've been living there since the pack fractured…"

"He was looking for them?" said the Headmitresss, frowning. "But why? I mean, I'm sure you're lovely people, Mr. Lowell, but I'm afraid I don't understand…"

Theron looked to Remus, surprised, who shuffled his feet. "You didn't tell them?"

"Wasn't exactly my place," he mumbled.

"Remus?" Dora's inner auror had come out, and now she was crossing her arms. "What's he on about?" Her husband hesitated, and she drew herself up, hair flaming red. "Remus, this is a criminal investigation; either you tell me what's going on, or I swear I will–"

"Don't be angry with him, Nymphadora Lupin," a soft voice broke, in, startling the whole party. Mallory Lowell looked back, exhausted and pale. "Our alpha was acting in our best interests."

"Oh?" Dora crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. "How so? Why was Greyback after you last night?"

The woman drew a breath, and Theron spoke up: "Mallory, don't."

"No, Theron," she sighed. "It's time. They need to know." The werewolf seemed to steel herself, and then said, quite simply, "Fenrir Greyback came for me because he is my father."

There was dead silence in the infirmary. After several seconds, Dora turned, walked to the door, and closed it tightly. Then she turned around, arms crossed.

"Alright, Remus Lupin," the auror said flatly. "Start talking."

* * *

 **A/N: So! Thoughts? Ideas? Did you like the fluff? Did you like the Lowells? Please do tell me in a review!**

 **From here on out I will begin posting another story in conjunction with this one, entitled,** _ **Among Wolves.**_ **It will be a story about the time Remus spent with the pack, including Greyback, the Lowells, a few of the characters you've seen in this story and a few that you haven't (yet). Look for the update around the end of the month!**

 _ **LATIN TRANSLATIONS:**_

 _ **Castrum Lupinus =**_ **Lupinus Castle**

 _ **Cor hominis vincit unguibus bestia. =**_ **The heart of man overcomes the claws of the beast.**


	18. Chapter 18: What We Do for Family

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do I profit from this work produced here.

 _ **IMPORTANT: I am not, by any means, a counselor or have any knowledge on how to approach an alcoholic or deal with grief. THIS IS NOT MEANT TO PROVIDE MEDICAL OR PSYCHOLOGICAL HELP AND WHATEVER YOU DO YOU DO AT YOUR OWN RISK!**_

 **Warnings: cursing, bullying, alcoholism, torture.**

 **A/N: Sorry for the wait. I've been totally swamped with schoolwork; I had to read a novel in Spanish, not to mention the whole of** _ **Fides et Ratio**_ **, in addition to my other schoolwork. Oh, and I got sick. *blegh* And honestly, the plot bunnies just weren't biting this month, so sorry about that.**

 **Seriously though, guys, you've got to understand that I have a life outside of the fandom community; this is only a small part of what I do, and it necessarily comes second to just about everything else. On top of my schoolwork I'm also the understudy for helping plan my pro-life group's trip out to DC for the March for Life this year, I've joined a new club, started dating my boyfriend, and I've also been trying to find a job. That considered, it's probably fair to say that you won't be getting another update for about a month. *shrughs* Sorry.**

 **RoboTitaness: Regarding "Little Red Cloak," I was actually inspired from a story which mentioned Sirius telling a "werewolf" story on the Marauder's first night at Hogwarts (it's one of the ones in my "favorites" category, can't remember which); I liked the idea, but decided to use it a little differently.**

 **Regarding your story request, I actually have something planned for that coming up a bit later. You'll see what I mean when we get into the "Christmas" chapters.**

 **PrincessOfFlames: Request taken into account. :) I have a specific place I intend to put it, though, so you might not see it for a while.**

 **MinervaMcGee: Yes, all wizards and witches, although Mallory and the children haven't been properly trained and so can't use magic very well. The only werewolf character in this story who isn't magical is Maggie MacIver (for biological reasons that will make sense the further we go on in the story).**

 **To the rest of my readers: I know I spent a whole lot of time in September, but the story is going to be picking up a bit now that we have the actual villain/main conflict introduced. For instance, this chapter is going to jump about two chapters from beginning to end. Hope you enjoy, and please remember to review!**

* * *

 ***** When Remus finished his story, the whole infirmary stood silent for a long while. Remus looked down at the floor, slowly turning red. He had, of course, related the highlights of the tale to the Order during the meeting after Professor Dumbledore's death, but he had never gone into such detail.

Slughorn, the only one present who had not been at said meeting, was the first to break the silence. "You mean to say," the potions professor said faintly, "you mean to say that you are now the alpha over all the werewolves in Great Britain?"

Remus nodded wearily. "For the most part, yes. There are some who don't accept my authority, Greyback and his remaining followers among them, but in general the majority will abide by my orders, even if they don't like them."

"A situation, as we can see, that is quite favorable to Great Britain," McGonagall concluded. "Am I right to say, Tonks, that the number werewolf attacks in the last year have dropped?"

"Significantly so. If it hadn't been for Remus, the war could have gone quite a bit worse for our end," the auror agreed.

Slughorn still seemed unconvinced, apparently overwhelmed by the idea that this humble man could possibly command so much power. "So you mean to say if he told you to do anything," he asked, rather brusquely, to Mallory and Theron, "that you would do it? No questions asked?"

The pair stiffened. "Remus doesn't work like that," Theron said sharply. "He would never ask us to violate our consciences."

"But could he?"

"Not exactly," Remus broke in. "The Ring's power only amplifies the hierarchical instinct, it can't entirely override free will. And to be fair, my commands were particularly unorthodox; there are some among the packs who have disobeyed my orders to leave unbitten people in peace… but by and large, they will obey me, so long as I have the Ring."

"So do you have it on you?" the other professor inquired, looking at the werewolf's hands rather intently, as if he thought that Remus had somehow managed to make it invisible. "Are you hiding it somewhere?"

"Not exactly," Dora spoke up, and lifted the chain off from around her neck, holding it out for all to see. On the end glimmered a gold band, inlaid with a Roman-cut diamond on one side and a ruby on the other.

Slughorn crept closer, almost without realizing it. "My word," he murmured. "But that's your engagement ring! How did I not see…?"

"With whom better to hide a diamond ring than a newly-wed bride?" said Tonks with a grin, looping the chain back around her neck and tucking the ring under her shirt.

Slughorn shook his head. "Incredible," he murmured. "Absolutely incredible. And is it all true? Are you an heir of this– this Melion?"

"No," Remus said simply, at the same time that Mallory insisted, _"Yes!"_

Slughorn looked between the two, surprised, as Remus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mallory, we've been through this," the professor insisted. "It is not possible for a werewolf to have a healthy child; you and my son are proof of that. Your father could not be a descendant of Melion any more than I could."

"Heresy!" the woman nearly snarled, prompting her husband to squeeze her shoulder gently, murmuring that she should remain calm and try to rest.

Lupin turned back to Slughorn and said, "As you can see, Mallory and I have differing opinions on that matter. However, it's of little consequence right now; the fact of the matter is that the Ring belongs to me, regardless of heritage; I doubted very much that Greyback would let me get away with taking it so easily, but as he hasn't targeted me specifically since the Battle, I thought perhaps he had decided to let it alone. Now, however, I'm not so sure…"

"But it seems he went to Lupin Castle looking for Mallory," McGonagall pointed out. "And there are no signs he's been near the castle in more than a month."

Remus shrugged, and Mallory added, "He spoke nothing of the ring or of you, Alpha. Though I can't claim to have perfect insight into my father's plans, I do not think his thoughts were on you at all."

"Perhaps…" Though he still looked uncertain, Remus shook his head and said, "The question at hand now is what we are to do about the five of you. It's certain he will follow you if he can."

"Perhaps the children can attend school here," McGonaglal suggested. "They'll be a month behind, but I'm sure they'd be able to catch up to the other first years' soon enough–"

"To be frank, Professor, I'd rather the children stay with us for the time being," Theron said firmly. "I can assure you that I'm quite capable of teaching the boys myself for a year or two."

The headmistress inclined her head. "And I never doubted you. Very well; we shall simply have to find another place for you to live under a _fidelius_ charm."

"Yes, well…" Theron had turned red and cleared his throat, gaze dropping. "You see, Professor, my work was back in Llanbedrog… that is to say, the market is not exactly in my favor at the moment… Perhaps it would be best if I continued on there, and the children and Mallory could go into hiding–"

"Theron, no!" Mallory broke in, struggling to sit up; her face had gone pale. "He knows we were there; if you go back, he'll find you for certain–"

"Love, what choice do we have?" the man said exhaustedly. "We can't live on the charity of others forever, and the children will only grow; how will pay for their schooling? Their food, the clothes on their back? No, we need the money…"

But at the beginning of their argument, a light had begun to grow in Minerva McGonagall's green eyes, and Remus knew that an idea had sparked in her mind. "Mr. Lowell," she interrupted shrewdly, "I was wondering if I might make an personal enquiry?" The man blinked, but gestured for her to continue. "Your talents in business are absolutely unprecedented; I remember even as a student you had an understanding of entrepreneurship that far surpassed your classmates. And goodness knows you ran your company far more honorably than those bureaucrats in charge of it now."

"Thank you, Professor…?"

"To make matters short, the school Board of Governors has been searching for a financial advisor for the last few months. As our former advisor did not survive the war, and the cost of repairs following the battle have left a rather gaping hole in our funds, we are in desperate need of someone who can get us back in the black without cutting necessary corners."

Theron stared. "Are you… offering me a job?"

"No, Mr. Lowell, I'm asking you a favor. I'm well aware that your skillset is far above the occupation posting, but it would be an incredible service to the school if you would lend us your talents." At his continued shocked silence, she pursed her lips. "Theron Lowell, I do hope you are not the sort of man to make an old woman beg."

Theron blinked, and then stammered out, "No, I- I accept, of course I accept!" Then he laughed, incredulous and overjoyed. "Professor, I- how could you–" He leapt to his feet and embraced her, causing the headmistress to go stiff. "Thank you! Thank you, Professor, I don't know what to say…"

McGonagall cleared her throat. "Yes, well…" Theron seemed to realize what he was doing and stepped back, coughing and extending his apologies. As the man turned instead to embrace his wife, both laughing and crying with relief, Remus turned to his wife. Dora was grinning and had tears in her eyes.

"How wonderful," she croaked softly, wiping her eyes. "Oh, Remus…"

Her husband smiled and nodded, slipping his hand in hers. Finally, it seemed that things were looking up.

* * *

Two weeks passed in relative peace at Hogwarts; for the first few days, Remus, Dora and the headmistress were constantly on the alert, waiting for Fenrir Greyback to come knocking at the front gates, but there was nothing. Slowly but surely, life settled back into its ordinary routine: Remus taught his classes, Dora managed the Office, and one fine evening, Teddy pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and crawled over to his mother's feet from where he'd been chewing on his stuffed kneazle in front of the fire.

Among the students, too, Remus could see the mood rising even as the weather chilled; Neville Longbottom could be found in the greenhouses in the early morning, whistling to himself as he watered Professor Sprout's Wiggentree; Hermione Granger would often leave the library long after everyone else, occasionally accompanied by the young Mr. Weasley; and, much to Remus's happiness, Harry had regained his characteristic passion and good cheer, having thrown himself whole-heartedly into training the Quidditch team (he had, however, forgotten to sign himself up for some thesis project, putting him solidly half a month behind, but Remus had the feeling Hermione would set him straight soon enough, and besides, he didn't want to be the one to spoil the boy's good mood).

Another positive boon was that, three days after the full moon, the interview he'd conducted with the Cattermoles appeared in the _Prophet–_ on the fourth page, it was true, and shoved in a side-collumn that made it rather difficult to read, but there it was, in black and white, his statement to the world at large that he _wasn't_ a mass murderer. Remus couldn't help but feel proud.

Dora was less than pleased. "Page four and a week and a half late," she groused, throwing it down on the breakfast table. "After Skeeter got her nonsense in as a bloody headline. I thought Kingsley was supposed to be working on this!"

"Now, Dora, Kingsley has more than enough to deal with right now," Remus placated, taking a bite of his oatmeal. "Besides, I think it's frankly marvelous it got in at all."

"Hmph." Dora, still upset, scooped a spoonful of orange mush out of the jar and stuck it in Teddy's mouth without so much as a preliminary _"here comes the broomstick."_

Apparently, however, a werewolf-teacher speaking out against one of the most vicious mass-murderers in Europe was enough to garner attention, fourth page or no; more than a dozen letters arrived that day, and a few more each day after that, from folks all around the country offering their apologies and encouragement; one even sent a talking letter, explaining that she felt right awful having sent him a Howler without all the information and hoped he would accept her apologies. Remus was pleasantly astonished, and even Dora had to grudgingly admit that the writer had some guts for owning up to her mistake.

But best of all, better even than the letters, was that the professor had found his skills in teaching seemed to have returned to him; perhaps Dora's advice had restored his confidence, or perhaps it was simply good luck, but soon enough his classes once again became full of laughter, enthusiasm and scholarly curiosity. Thus was it that Professor R. J. Lupin walked into his seventh-year class on the sunny Wednesday morning of October the twenty-first with a smile on his face. He was particularly excited for this lesson as, for the first time in his career, he could give a full demonstration of his abilities on this particular subject.

The students, as usual, fell quiet as he walked into the class; Remus set his briefcase down on the desk, retrieved his lecture notes and waved his wand at the board; the word _Patroni_ appeared in loopy letters, and the class began to buzz with interest.

"Alright, everyone, out of your desks!" he called with a grin. "Today's a practical lesson, and one I think you'll quite enjoy. Hop to it, now, come along…"

Everyone eagerly stood up; with another wave of the cypress stave, the benches and desks lifted up into the air and stacked themselves neatly against the back wall, leaving the students very impressed. "Everyone, form a circle, if you please."

They did so, and Remus stepped out from behind the podium. "Alright, now," he began, "how many of you know how to produce a patronus?" About half the class- each a former member of the DA- raised a hand. Lupin nodded, impressed. "And how many a corporeal patronus?" A few lowered their hands, but a great many of them remained. "Last question: how many of you have ever used the charm against an actual dementor?"

Everyone save Ron, Harry and Hermione put their hands down. The professor nodded again. "Excellent. Alright, I want everyone who's capable of producing a corporeal patronus on the right of the room, everyone who isn't on the left. Come now, hurry up!"

Everyone quickly moved to the opposite sides of the room; Lupin waved his wand, and lines of script appeared on the blackboard. "Here's the general theory; don't worry about taking notes, I'll give you each a copy at the end of class. Now a patronus is a sort of positive force; it can be used to send messages, but more importantly, a patronus can act as a sort of shield for its conjurer, with the dementor feeding off of it instead of the caster."

"Blimey, Harry, sounds just like your lecture," Ron murmured under his breath.

"I learned from the best," Harry replied with a slight smile.

"The incantation is _expecto patronum,_ can everyone say that with me? _Expecto patronum."_

 _"Expecto patronum,"_ the class repeated dutifully.

"Very nice. Now, the incantation, like all magic, is itself useless unless accompanied by a force of the will. In this case, the will must come from a very strong, joyous memory. To give you some sort of scope, I usually recall my wedding."

As the professor waited, Harry himself glanced around the room; everyone seemed to be thinking very hard. Several of his fellow students' faces were frowning, tinged with worry; the war had left a lot of bad memories in its wake, threatening to overpower the good by their very existence. He himself closed his eyes… a bright, brilliant memory bloomed in his mind. Dawn at the burrow, atop the roof. Ginny in her pale pink dressing gown, eyes closed, the fresh golden sun hitting her face and setting her red hair afire. The excitement pounding in his heart and the slight weight of a small box in his pocket.

"Everyone ready?" He opened his eyes. Everyone certainly did not _look_ ready, but at least many looked determined. Lupin nodded. "Very good; here's how it will look. _Expecto patronum!"_

There was a gasp from several of the students; even Harry himself was startled, for he had never seen Lupin cast a full patronus before. A silvery figure burst from the wand, coming to a stop in the middle of the room. The gleaming wolf looked around at them, proud, intelligent, curiosity glowing in its brilliant blue-white eyes. "It's so _pretty,"_ one of the Slytherin girls gasped.

"I was looking more for _majestic,_ but thank you, Miss Sailor." The class laughed. "One's patronus will generally take on a form reminiscent in some respect of their true nature- and before anyone asks, _no,_ my patronus is not a werewolf. No tufted tail, you see?" They did, and he continued, "Although it is unusual, a patronus can change over time; could anyone tell me why? Yes, Harry."

The bespectacled wizard lowered his hand. "An extreme emotional disturbance of some sort, such as unrequited love."

Lupin quirked a grin. "Excellent, Harry; five points to Gryffindor. That is exactly correct. Alright, everyone pair off with someone from the opposite side of the room. Those of you who have been trained, help your classmates. I'll be making my way around if anyone needs me." He snapped his fingers at the wolf, and it leapt to his side, following him like a companion as he began to pace around the room.

Matching-off itself was a tad intense, for as a general rule it was the former members of the DA on the one hand and Slytherins on the other, accompanied by a handful of underclassmen from the other houses. Everyone immediately looked to his own particular arch-nemesis and then hastened to find someone else. Harry found himself paired with the Slytherin girl who had piped up during Lupin's lecture and began helping her with the incantation.

Much to their mutual embarrassment, Draco found himself paired with Neville Longbottom. "Er- well, alright, then," Neville said, with much less of his usual fluster when speaking to the blond- the last year had quite literally knocked the nervous habits out of him. "Like Lupin said, you need a happy memory- well, _happy's_ not exactly the right word-"

"Well, what is the right word, then?" Draco snapped, trying to cover his humiliation at being taught a spell by _Longbottom._

Neville raised an eyebrow, apparently a little affronted. _"Joyous_ is more applicable," he said coolly. "Very few memories are purely happy, but even a bittersweet one will do, so long as it contains genuine joy."

"Oh." He flushed. That hardly made it better. Joyous? It sounded like a high, self-righteous term– exactly what a Gryffindor would use. Could success count? It didn't seem exactly right… joyous, _joyous..._ Come on, he had to have been truly happy at least _once_ in his life!

Neville was watching him with obvious concern; panicking slightly that he'd somehow read his mind, Draco settled on the memory of receiving an _O_ in his potions final. He focused hard, raised his wand, and said clearly, _"Expecto patronum!"_

Whatever he was expecting, it didn't happen; a curl of silver smoke puffed out of his wand anti-climactically, and he scowled. "That's alright," Neville said, apparently unconcerned. "It usually doesn't happen on the first go; mine took me ages. It'll be easier once you get the hang of it."

"Why don't _you_ do the charm, then," Draco huffed, frustrated.

Neville shrugged obligingly and waved his wand. _"Expecto patronum."_ A fluffy silver-white figure leapt forward, and when it came to a halt, snuffling in mid-air, Draco realized it was a guinea pig, eyeing him cheerfully and quite a bit larger than the real thing.

The blond snickered. "Your true essence is a _guinea pig?"_

"Whereas yours is silver smoke?" Neville countered mildly. That shut him up.

Draco tried a few more times, but achieved nothing more than a few more puffs of mist, before they vanished into thin air. Irritated, he took a break by glancing around the room. Potter, of course, had succeeded in producing a large white stag, and was working to help Jeanie Saylor. After a failed attempt, she let out a squeal of delight as an angelfish appeared and swam gracefully through the air. Weasley's terrier was chasing Granger's otter around the floor playfully, while Lovegood's rabbit dashed around the ceiling. Even as he watched, Lavender Brown waved her wand to give life to a small, silvery bear, which turned and lumbered over to her meekly, sniffing her hand.

"You want to give it another go?" Neville offered, redrawing his attention.

"What's the point? It's not working, is it?"

"You can't give up after three tries; where's that Slytherin ambition hiding?" Draco glared at him, but apparently Neville knew he couldn't back down from a challenge when it was tied to house pride. "Try a different memory," the Gryffindor suggested. "Something stronger."

He nodded, thinking hard. A memory… a _happy_ memory… the kind that put thrills in your stomach, exhilaration, success-

 _Ah!_ Of course! The day he caught the snitch in third year in the match with Hufflepuff, right from under the other seeker's broom. It had brought the winning score to 200-50 and sent them into the last game for the Cup. If that wasn't a happy memory, he didn't know what was. He raised his wand, unable to keep from grinning as he remembered soaring to the ground below, holding the tiny gold ball in his hands and listening to the stands cheer his name. His parents had come to that game. His mother had been crying for joy… father had beamed with pride, told him he was a chip off the old block…

Draco brandished the stave again, saying this time with more force: _"Expecto Patronum!"_ From the tip of the wand poured a cloud of opaque, white mist, forming a sort of glowing sphere in the air, but taking no shape. He held it for a moment more, and then let it dissipate, disappointed.

Longbottom was pleased. "Well done! Hardly anyone gets that far right off the bat."

"So what?" Draco was still scowling. "It wasn't anything…"

"You mustn't be so impatient; patroni take work. Go on, try again…"

Draco made another two attempts, both to the same result. He was just about to give up, frustrated, when he heard a voice behind him say: "That's quite a good start there."

He turned, surprised, to see Professor Lupin looking back at him. "Good starts don't drive off dementors he pointed out, a little irritably. Lupin raised an eyebrow, but by the amused twinkle in his eyes Draco could tell he knew the annoyance wasn't directed at him.

"Perhaps not, but they can be useful in holding them at bay." When the boy still looked discouraged, the professor turned to Longbottom and said politely, "Neville, I think I can take it from here; would you mind going to help Miss Brown teach Mr. Harper?" Longbottom, recognizing this as a dismissal, thanked the professor and walked off.

Draco shuffled his feet, embarrassed and irritable, and tried to look anywhere than at the professor. "You oughtn't be so hard on yourself, you know," Lupin advised. "Patroni aren't particularly simple charms to cast."

"Saint Potter's got it, hasn't he?" Draco muttered, glancing over to where the Boy Who Lived was quite obviously flirting with his ginger girlfriend. "And he was thirteen when you taught him…"

"Thirteen year olds generally haven't gone to war," the professor replied quietly, so that no one else could hear. "Draco, look at me." The student forced himself to meet the man's eyes, still flushed with embarrassment, but Lupin didn't seem to mind. "I know how difficult it is to find good memories when they're crowded out by so many bad ones, but we have to try. It's the only way to move forward." Draco was silent for a long moment, and then nodded. "Why don't you give it one last try?" Lupin suggested.

The young man took a deep breath, and then closed his eyes, thinking. So much of the last few years had been so ugly… months of terror, interspersed with moments of self-loathing and anger. But happiness? What happiness? The closest thing he had was the moment he'd first seen his father, after the Azkaban break-out: pale, starved, hardly able to stand, but alive. Draco had never felt such relief as he had in that moment… but could that really count for happiness? Somehow he doubted it. No, he would have to go back further… before he'd taken the mark, before the dark lord's return, before he'd ever had to worry about the man whose name he could still not speak…

And then it came to him. The last time in his memory he could recall being truly, purely happy. A moment where the dark lord did not exist. A moment where the whole world was full of opportunity, contained within that great fortress, blazing with light from a thousand candles out into the starry night as the boat drifted silently across a glossy lake…

 _"Expecto patronum!"_

A blazingly bright figure burst from the end of his wand, solid and corporeal. Several people gasped and looked over; Professor Lupin was nodding enthusiastically, clearly pleased. "Well done, Draco!" he exclaimed, as the spectral dragon took flight. "Twenty points to Slytherin!"

Draco grinned widely as he watched the dragon soar around the ceiling. His patronus felt _right:_ proud, strong, unafraid of any foe it could encounter. He started as he felt a hand clap his shoulder. "Good job," Lupin said kindly. "Knew you could do it. Mind if I go help Fay?"

"Sure; go on." The professor quirked a smile and then headed over to one of the few Gryffindor girls who was still having some trouble; Malfoy extended his hand, and the dragon (it was, thankfully, much smaller than an ordinary dragon) came to settle on his forearm like a hunting falcon. He reached up with a smile and petted its translucent snout; it felt warm and pulsing under his fingers, like solid energy.

"'Course it'd be a dragon, the pompous little pratt," a voice muttered, and he looked over. Weasely flushed red and quickly turned back to Granger, who smacked him reprovingly on the arm, but the damage was done; the patronus vanished, and with it the strong sense of pride and accomplishment that he hadn't felt in nearly two years, replaced by crushing shame. Was that what his patronus meant? Arrogance rather than pride? Selfishness rather than strength? Thoroughly humiliated, he hardly noticed as Professor Lupin walked over to the trio- at least, not until he heard what the man had to say.

"Ronald, I've said it before and I'll say it again: I will not tolerate blatant disrespect between students in my classroom." The professor's tone was firm yet very quiet, so as not to attract the attention of the other students; Weasley opened his mouth to object, but Lupin cut him off. _"Especially_ not when it hinders their schoolwork. Detention tonight at half-six."

Weasley looked aghast. "But Professor-"

"You don't have to like each other, but this school has suffered enough prejudices lately- yes, Ron, on both sides of the aisle. Detention. Half-six."

The redhead scowled for a moment, and then sighed. "Yeah, alright. Half-six."

"Thank you." He walked away as calmly as if nothing had happened and began helping another student.

Startled and still embarrassed, Draco didn't bother trying to produce the patronus again, and instead waited alone until class came to a close. When Lupin had dismissed them, he shouldered his bag and hurried to the door with the other students, hoping to leave before anyone else made some snide comment-

"Draco?"

He stopped, surprised. Lupin was standing next to his desk. "A word, if you please?"

The boy waited nervously as the other students left the room. He could hear their animated, happy conversation as the group dispersed down the hall. Lupin watched as Lavender Brown and the Patil twins left, and then walked over. "You should be proud of yourself," he said sincerely. "Very few people produce a patronus within their first few attempts."

"Others managed it," he countered, thinking to Saylor and feeling self-conscious about the praise.

"I daresay your classmates have a lot less personal history to shoulder."

Draco glanced away, uncomfortable. "I suppose…"

Lupin nodded in understanding, as if not wanting to press a sensitive issue. "Ronald was wrong, by the way," he added lightly. "Your patronus is a reflection of confidence and ambition."

"Which can be employed to the wrong ends."

"Or the right ones."

The two watched each other for a long moment, and then Lupin glanced down as his own patronus padded over and stood at his feet, lifting his nose affectionately. The professor grinned and ruffled the bright fur behind the wolf's ears. "You know, I've found that people have a rather silly habit of assuming that one characteristic or quality of an individual determines his whole character," said Lupin thoughtfully. "But I'm rather of a different opinion. I think it's our choices, especially the choices we make in the here and now, that determine who we are. Don't you?"

The wolf's brilliant white eyes turned to the young man, and Draco suddenly realized that the professor was speaking from experience.

"Well," the professor said, inclining his head. "Perhaps that's enough food for thought for one morning. Have a good day, Draco."

"You as well, Professor…" He paused, and then added sincerely, "Thank you."

The man nodded and smiled.

* * *

"I can't believe he gave me detention!"

The trio was making their way through the crowded hallway, headed for the charms classroom. Ron was still in a foul mood, scowling and red-faced. "It does seem a little harsh," Harry agreed, baffled at to how his favorite teacher could overreact to something like a little comment.

Hermione, it seemed, did not agree; she huffed and said, "Oh, _honestly,_ you two, don't tell me you're that thick!"

Both looked over, startled. "You can't possibly think that was fair!" Ron exclaimed.

"Ron, patroni are personal!" Hermione insisted. "They show your truest character, who you really are!"

"Yeah, and Malfoy's a conceited, snotty _git."_

"Is he now! How do you think I'd like it if you told me mine was an otter because of my teeth!"

Ron blinked. "I think your teeth are fine-"

"Or that Harry's is a stag because he's self-righteous! Or that yours is a terrier because you never take things seriously-"

"I do too take-"

"Or that Professor Lupin's is what it is _because he's a werewolf!"_

Her ringing words silenced them both. Ron suddenly looked queasy. "Blimey," he said hoarsely. "I- I didn't think of that…"

"That's obvious," she snipped angrily.

"Hermione-"

"Lupin's right, Ron; you don't have to like him, and I wouldn't expect you to, not after everything he's done to us– but in case neither of you have realized, he's not the same arrogant, mudblood-hating kid he was when we were fifteen!" She stopped them in the hall and looked them in the eyes. "Haven't you _noticed?"_

By the confused looks they wore, they clearly hadn't. She sighed. "Ron, Harry… Malfoy doesn't have a friend to speak of here. He's the object of _every_ joke, the fool of _every_ prank; I even caught a couple of sixth years having a go at him last month. He's a war criminal, Ron. He's _defeated."_

"Doesn't look so defeated to me," the Head Boy pointed out, still scowling.

"She's right, you know," a voice said from their left; the trio looked over to see that Ginny had joined them, a grim look on her face. "You should have heard Adrian, the night after tryouts. It was disgusting."

"Wait, Adrian?" said Harry, frowning. "As in Adrian Harold?"

Ginny failed to notice the warning look on Hermione's face and nodded. "Apparently he, Higgs and Hobbes found him wandering around down by the locker room that night and hexed him while his back was turned. Thought themselves right heroes, apparently. I'm glad Tonks didn't accept them into the corps; they're a lot of pigs."

Harry's face had been steadily growing harder throughout her explanation, and upon its conclusion turned to Hermione, visibly angry. "And you didn't think I needed to know this?" he demanded.

The witch blinked. "I gave them detention. I didn't think it had to go farther than that."

But the young man was hardly listening. In his mind, he was going through every time his cousin had tripped him in the school hallways or chased him through the neighborhood streets with his gang. Maybe Dudley had grown up over the years, but Harry still had little patience for bullying hotshots who didn't have the guts to pick on someone their own size. Was he, of all people, really going to let his players off for that sort of thing?

No, Harry decided firmly, no he was not. His house would be furious with him, no doubt about that– but, then again, maybe that was exactly the lesson these boys needed to learn. And if he had to pay the price for it, so be it.

After all, there were more important things in this world than Quidditch.

* * *

"…Thank you, Poppy; I'll see if we can't find a few more students willing to volunteer as orderlies. And now for the bad news…" The headmistress sighed and nodded to Theron, who rose from his chair with a grim look on his face. The rest of the faculty glanced around at each other, uncertain.

"Thank you, Headmistress," Theron intoned, inclining his head. "As I'm sure you're all aware, the repairs May battle have caused significant strain on the school's finances. If nothing is changed, then by my estimations you are at least a hundred thousand galleons in the red."

Murmurs spread throughout the room. Remus was floored; he'd never seen that much money in his life; his annual salary from the school was a little more than seven thousand galleons, before the subtraction of three thousand for annual room and board.

"Now by cutting all excess costs, including club funding and the feasts, we can bring that down to a more manageable seventy-five thousand, but as I'm sure you can see that's still a substantial amount. Now, I have outlined three plans to get us back in the black–"

"But I don't understand," Professor Trelawny interjected in her trilling voice, "Isn't this a matter for the board of governors?"

Theron inclined his head. "It would be, Professor, except that some of these proposals I would not want to bring before the board without your permission." He waved his wand; a series of sparks arranged to form glowing numbers in the air. "The first option is to raise student tuition, currently priced at a thousand galleons apiece, by approximately twenty percent."

More murmurs; the teachers looked around at each other anxiously. Such an increase would be impossibly expensive for so many families…

"The second, your own salaries, currently set to seven thousand galleons, could each be cut by about two thousand; that would cover the deficit as well. Or finally, and this is the option I am more inclined towards, we could cut your salaries by half that amount, and raise student tuition by about nine to ten percent, extending scholarships to the students who can't afford the hundred-galleon increase."

He waved his wand, and the numbers vanished, looking around at the instructors before him. "Of course, those numbers can be adjusted one way or another, but that is the general gist of our options. I now put the choice to you."

There was a pause as everyone looked around at each other, uncertain what to say. Their research funding had already been put on their own shoulders, and now this? _Blast the war,_ many thought bitterly, _blast the war and all its consequences._

"Well, I can't speak for rest of you," a voice spoke up, and all turned to see Fillius Flitwick standing up on his chair to be seen over the table, "But this school has always been my home… it's given me a roof over my head and food in my belly all these years, and really, what more does a man need?" He nodded to Theron. "You can take my two-thousand, good man. Don't charge the students on my account."

"And mine," Pomona agreed.

"Mine as well."

Remus, who was next, hesitated. "I can't make my decision so hastily," he admitted. "After all, I have a family to provide for… but I'll talk it over with Dora. Perhaps we can find a way to make it work."

Within a few short minutes, nearly everyone had agreed to forgo the two thousand galleons, aside from Professors Oakley and Kemp, both of whom lived outside of the school, but even they had agreed to give what they could. McGonagall's eyes were sparkling by the time Theron nodded and sat down. "I have never been so proud to be your headmistress," she said, voice thick. "Truly, I am honored to work with such selfless people." She cleared her throat, collecting herself, and then stood again. "I believe that this closes our meeting, then. All in favor, say 'aye.'"

"Aye," the staff chorused in unison.

"In that case, meeting adjourned."

As the other teachers filed out of the room, Remus noticed Theron catch McGonagall by the elbow. "Professor, I do have a quick question for you; if you could remain behind a moment…"

Curious, yet knowing it was none of his business, Remus shouldered his briefcase and left the room, accompanied by Professor Slughorn. "Brilliant man, isn't he?" the potions master said, shaking his head admiringly. "One of my favorite students; not much of a head for potions, mind you, but sharp as a quill's end, and terribly honest; he used to tell me whenever he found out a student had found a new way to cheat on my quizzes. That's why I made him prefect, you know; Minerva couldn't have made a better choice…"

"Yes; he's a very good man," Remus agreed, "I–" He broke off suddenly with an, "Oh, bugger!"

Slughorn blinked at the profanity. "Beg your pardon?"

"I left my wand on the table! Terribly sorry, Professor–"

"No, no, by all means."

Remus thanked him and hurried back to the room, wondering how he could possibly just burst into a private conversation. He rounded the corner to find that the door to the staff room had been closed and locked. Just as he was about to knock, a phrase from the conversation occurring beyond caught his attention:

"-As I've said before, Mr. Lowell, there has been no mistake."

"But to put half of your paycheck into a separate account? Forgive me, professor, but that is a rather confusing move– if I might say so, it could be construed as suspicious–"

"I assure you it is nothing of a dishonest nature," McGonagall replied, "I'm simply not certain how to correctly allocate the funds to their proper end, so I set them aside in an unnamed account."

"Allocate the funds?"

"Precisely. I…" There was a moment's hesitation, and then Remus heard the headmistress admit, sounding a bit embarrassed, "I would like to reassign half of my income over the next five years to a private scholarship for an incoming student."

Remus's eyes widened. From beyond the door, he heard Theron reply, "Ah, I see. Well, I can arrange that into the budget; it should be relatively simple…"

"Thank you, Mr. Lowell. Was there anything else?"

"No, I believe that should cover it. Mind if I take the floo?"

"By all means. Have a good evening, Mr. Lowell."

"And you, Professor."

Remus heard the sound of the staff room fireplace flaring to life, and then footsteps. He only managed to back away somewhat from the door before it opened. McGonagall saw him and stopped short. "Remus!" She pursed her lips. "…How much did you hear?"

Instead of answering, the werewolf merely stared, wide-eyed. "The Antonellis," he murmured. "That was how you managed it? You gave up your own salary?"

The headmistress shrugged. "I'm an old woman, Remus, and a childless widow at that. Aside from room and board and services on Sundays, what more do I really need?"

"But your research," he said, "your writing…"

"What is research compared to a child's future?"

The two stared at each other for a long moment, hazel meeting green. Remus was in awe. "You said you were honored to work with us, Professor. But in truth, it is I who am honored to work with you."

The headmistress managed a small smile. "Then I will thank you." The cuckoo-clock within the staff room sang its tune, and she nodded to the hallway. "You'd best be going; didn't you have detention at six?"

"I left my wand on the table actually; I'll fetch it and be on my way."

"I see. Well, have a good evening."

"You as well, Professor."

She gave him a nod and turned down the hallway; Remus ducked inside the room and retrieved the thin cyprus stave from the table. As he left, he cast a glance down the hallway. Alone the aging figure walked, accompanied by nothing but her shadow, and not for the first time, Remus felt the humbling sense of looking in on the life of an unsung saint. "Truly, I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all of them," he murmured softly to himself, "For they all contributed out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on…"

At the end of the hallway, the headmistress rounded the corner, and disappeared. And the man, filled with a strange melancholy, turned and left.

* * *

Ron Weasley was already waiting for him by the time he arrived at his classroom, leaning up against the wall. Remus gave him a nod as he unlocked the door. "Good evening, Ronald."

"Evening, Professor Lupin," the Head Boy mumbled, turning red and not meeting his eyes. Remus raised an eyebrow but didn't question it, instead opening the door and stepping inside. Ron looked up, startled, as the professor snapped his fingers, lighting the candles in the chandelier. "You can do wandless magic?" he said with surprise.

Remus shrugged his shoulders. "Depends on the day." At Ron's rather impressed expression, he chuckled. "It's no credit to me; just one of the rare perks of being a werewolf. Take a seat; I'm afraid I haven't had much time today to be creative with your detention, so you'll be writing an essay."

"How long?"

"However long you can make it before quarter to seven." At the young man's surprised expression, Lupin shrugged. "What? I want to see Gryffindor win the Quidditch cup as much as you do."

"Oh. Well, er, thanks, Professor…"

"You're quite welcome. Now go on, take out your quill…"

Ron sat down and pulled a quill and some parchment out of his bag. Remus waved his wand at the board, on which appeared the words, _Why My Fellow Students Deserve Respect._ Then, sitting down at his own desk, he set to work on grading the fourth-years' homework.

After five minutes, he glanced up, and found to his surprise that the young man had yet to start writing. Instead, Ron was staring at the chalkboard, his face set into a reluctant scowl. Remus cleared his throat, drawing the student's attention. "Is there a problem, Ronald?"

Much to his surprise, Ron opened his mouth, and then shook his head with a rather surly, "No, Professor." Still, he didn't begin writing.

Raising both eyebrows this time, Remus sat up straighter and leaned forward. "Well, don't hold back just because I'm your teacher. Come now, out with it."

The youth hesitated, and then, quite suddenly, it all burst out. "Well, he doesn't deserve my respect, does he?" Ron demanded, setting down his quill angrily. "And I don't see why I should have to give it to him."

"I wouldn't presume to tell you to respect him personally, Ron, but he does deserve your respect as another human being. The attitude you displayed in class today told me that clearly you have no interest in treating him as a real person, merely a charicature. Wasn't that the problem we had with the Death Eaters to begin with?"

"Well I dunno about you, but my _problem_ with his lot is that they go around offing people for fun," said Ron coldly.

"Did you ever stop to consider that perhaps they felt they had no choice?" Lupin demanded. "Oh, certainly some of them took pleasure in what they did– but don't you think it's possible that others were simply afraid?"

"Then they're cowards," the redhead said venomously. "And I've got no reason to pity them."

"Well, what a helpful attitude!" the professor exclaimed, rising to his feet. "Let's just toss civil conversation and human compassion out the window then, it's a good deal less fun than picking a fight! No, but you're right, Ron; why _should_ we bother to pity our enemies? Why _should_ we try to understand what they went through?"

"What _he_ went through?" Ron demanded, aghast. "Last I checked, _he_ didn't take any losses from this war, not like the rest of us! Last I checked, _he_ was part of the lot responsible for so many people getting killed! Last I checked–"

"–Last I checked, the war is over!" said Lupin harshly. "And all of us, Ron, _all of us_ are going to have to find some way of getting along, unless we want another to break out right in front of us!" Ron glowered at him. "Do you think that isn't a possibility? Do you think the battle ended in the hall downstairs? You're not a fool, Ron; use your head! We're all suffering!"

"He's not suffering! His family's still here, still whole! Don't you _dare_ tell me how to treat the people responsible for what happened to mine!"

"Ron, I understand it's hard, _believe_ me, I do-"

 _"YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! YOU AREN'T THE ONE LISTENING TO YOUR SISTER CRY HERSELF TO SLEEP EVERY NIGHT! YOU AREN'T THE ONE HIDING FROM YOUR MUM THAT GEORGE CAN'T GET OFF THE FUCKING FIREWHISKEY! YOU AREN'T THE ONE WHOSE BROTHER IS DEAD!"_

"ALL THREE OF MY BROTHERS ARE DEAD!" Lupin bellowed, shocking Ron to silence. _"All three of them, Ron!_ And Lily with them! Each of them, gone forever! And if I learned to look the man responsible in the eyes every day for a year, if I learned to trust the man who made Sirius suffer and rot in his hell of a house until he nearly went mad with misery, if I learned to _forgive_ the man who gave Voldemort reason to hunt James and Lily down - well by Merlin, Ron, you can learn to keep a civil tongue around Draco Malfoy, and you bloody well shall unless you want to spend every night in this office taking lines!" His eyes flashed yellow-gold with intensity, teeth bared. "I can't lose my family again, Ron! I can't watch another war erupt on my doorstep! And I won't, not for your prejudices, or Draco Malfoy's, or even my own! _I won't!"_

The two stared at each other for a long moment, breathing hard. Lupin took a shuddering breath and said, "I- I'm sorry, Ronald, I don't know what…"

"No, no, I'm sorry," the redhead stammered. "I… I didn't think…"

Lupin sighed and sat down tiredly in his desk. After a long moment, he shook his head. "Ron… I watched a boy grow from a quiet, innocent child in potions class into a trained killer responsible for the deaths of thirteen separate people… I was a prefect. I could have done something about it, could have stopped my friends from carrying on and bullying Severus the way they did… but I was too much of a coward." He looked up, and Ron was stunned to see that his eyes held a deep shame. "I will always feel responsible for the misery Severus suffered, the misery he caused, and I _cannot_ allow it to happen again. Not even in the name of well-deserved family vengeance. I'm sorry."

There was a long pause, and then the student nodded, not meeting his eyes. It was only in that silence that the professor realized the implications of what the boy had said. "…Ron?" he said uncertainly, standing again and walking forward. "You said George was…?"

Another pause, shorter this time, and then a rather noisy sniffle as Ron nodded, still not speaking.

"Oh, Merlin," Remus sighed, sitting down in the next desk, "Ron, tell me you've told your parents?"

"No. I can't," the young man replied, shaking his head and looking up; the teacher noticed that his eyes were red. "Mum and Dad– I mean, they're still trying to move on, you know? They don't need this too."

"But you're still mourning, too," said Lupin gently. "Ron, this isn't fair to you. You're a young man, about to set out into your future; you shouldn't have to be worried about taking care of George on top of all of that." An idea suddenly occurred to him. "This was why you were going to work at the joke shop, wasn't it? To look after your brother…"

The redhead shrugged hopelessly. "I don't know what else to do. Someone's got to take care of him, and…"

"But why you? Ron, why should it have to be _you_ who sacrifices your future?"

"Because they're my family," Ron said tiredly, and suddenly, Remus saw past the buoyant personality and passionate Weasely temper to a young man with far too much weight on his shoulders. "They're my family, all of them- even Harry and Hermione. They need me. If I don't take care of them, no one will."

For a long moment, the professor was silent, stunned speechless. Could this really have been the boy who'd given the cold shoulder to Hermione Granger over a cat and a misunderstanding? The boy who'd ranted to him for two amusing hours on Christmas Eve about how "all girls were mental" and "stupid McLaggen who can't even fly straight?" No… no, he realized with a sad sort of admiration, it was not. This was not the face of an excited, proud child; the student before him had shoulders slumped by an unseen weight and a weary, saddened expression in his blue eyes. Once again, war had made boys into men.

In the end, Remus said softly, with a hint of irony, "It's really quite a pity that you and Mr. Malfoy never did become friends … you're more alike than you know."

"Professor?" the student said, startled.

"Ron, you're grieving just as much as the rest of us. And yes, you're a pillar for your family and your friends, you always have been… but you shouldn't have to shoulder the burden alone."

"There's no one else. I have to take care of them. It's who I am."

"I know. But you're still a student, and you owe yourself a good education, a good future. At the very least, I don't want you to have to worry about George any longer."

"But-"

"I'm not saying to leave him out in the cold; I'm saying that I'll take care of it."

Ron looked up at him, stunned. "You- _you'll_ take care of it?"

"I will. Leave it to me; I'll talk to George tomorrow afternoon." When the redhead still seemed uncertain, Remus set a hand on his shoulder. "Ron, I am asking you to trust me. Can you do that?"

The redhead stared at him for a long moment, and then, his expression turning to one of strange and hopeful relief, managed a small nod. "Yeah… yeah, I trust you."

"Good. Now–" The professor reached over and tapped the blank parchment with his finger, "Let's get started on that essay, shall we?"

Ron laughed and nodded, looking far more cheerful, Remus realized, than he had in weeks, perhaps even months. As the professor chuckled himself and retreated to his own desk, he watched the young man pick up his quill, chew on the end for a moment, and then start writing. Time flew by, and soon enough, the clock was striking quarter to seven.

"That's time," the professor called lightly, glancing up from the homework he was marking. "You're free to go."

"It's not quite finished…"

"No matter; it's not for a grade." Ron nodded and packed up his quill, handing the sheaf of parchment to the professor on the way past. At the door, he stopped and turned.

"Professor, um… I don't know what to say–"

Remus shook his head. "Think nothing of it. Go enjoy practice."

A smile quirked the young man's mouth. "Well… thanks." He left, closing the door behind him, and Remus smiled as well. Good. Children, and young adults as well, deserved to be free from their worries for an hour or two. They deserved to play games and laugh and fall in love. They deserved peace.

After all, Remus thought, if not for that, what had they fought for?

* * *

Practice was a dismal affair, played in the driving downpour of rain for which Scotland was so famous. Harry finally called it after the sky was so dark that they were nearly running into each other mid-air, seeing as he didn't want any injuries before the game. Moreover, a righteous fury had been burning in his belly ever since Ginny's little revelation that morning, and he was determined to put it right. He didn't have to like Malfoy, but no one on his team- _no one-_ got away with picking on people for kicks, let alone players on the opposing teams.

"Alright, everyone, circle up!" he called as the other players tromped into the equipment room, their shoes squelching on the stone. "Good work out there today; Neville, Ginny, I liked the communication, really well done. Ron, you were veering too far towards the left goal sometimes, make sure to watch that during the game. Macey, you did great, but I want you to work on your control when you're flying against the wind; it's slowing you down." The backup-seeker, a shy third year by the name of Evan Macey, nodded eagerly. "Oh, and one last thing," Harry added, shifting his stance and crossing his arms. "Creevy, Ruggles and Stone, I'm putting you in for the match. Harold, Higgs and Hobbes, you'll be taking the bench."

The reaction was instantaneous; the three ousted players let out cries of complaint, while the younger students looked absolutely shocked; Dennis Creevy even dropped his chaser gloves. "What exactly are you playing at?" Harold demanded furiously.

"I'm not playing at anything," Harry retorted coldly. "You beat up the Slytherin seeker a few weeks ago; that's unacceptable."

"Backup seeker!" Harold protested. Harry noted that with surprise; he'd assumed that Malfoy had made the team without a hitch. Still, that wasn't the matter at hand. "Did Granger tell you? Because she didn't see the whole–"

"Actually, I told him," a cool voice said, drawing every eye; Ginny looked back, arms crossed and her glare as fiery as her hair. "You should really learn not to brag about cursing people with their backs turned, Adrian."

Harold gaped at her, and then turned back to Harry with an expression of incredulity. "Coach, you can't be serious; we're playing Ravenclaw next _week!"_

 _"Then if Gryffindor loses you'll know who's to blame!"_ Harry thundered back, surprising even himself. The three stared up at him, shocked. "Quidditch isn't just a _game;_ it's supposed to build character and integrity! You violated that and you let the team down!"

"None of _them_ seem to care!" the chaser snapped back, going red.

Harry glanced around. The others were uncomfortably avoiding his gaze, save for Ginny and Ron. Much to his relief, Ron snorted and returned, "You placing bets on that, mate?"

Harold scowled, and Harry nodded. "Right. Well, even if _they_ don't, I _do._ Next time I see you picking on _anyone_ like that again, you're off the team for good." They began to object, and he raised a hand. "I don't care who they are. You want to stoop to their level, you can play on _their_ teams. Do I make myself clear?"

Nondescript mumbles.

 _"Do I make myself clear?"_

"Yes, coach," the three muttered in unison. Harry nodded.

"Good. Alright, everyone, go wash up. I'll see you all for practice on Saturday."

The rest of the team left the equipment room in a subdued manner; Harry could hear them begin to whisper as they disappeared into hallway, heading for the changing rooms. Ginny gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and then followed, leaving only the captain and the keeper behind.

Harry sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, glancing over. "Do you think I'm an idiot?" he asked tiredly.

Ron shrugged. "Would it make any difference what I think?"

"…Not really, no."

His friend nodded, and then glanced over. "I don't think you're an idiot," he said simply. "They got what was coming to them. Besides, we're a team, y'know? Higher standards, and all that."

Harry grinned. "You think?"

"Sure." He had a funny look in his eyes, the seeker noticed, though he couldn't quite identify what it was– it almost seemed like resolve. "You can't treat someone like that, whether you like them or not. It's… well, it's wrong." Ron shrugged again. "Dunno, I guess I just think someone needed to set them straight."

"Right… well, er, thanks." Harry was still confused, feeling sure that he had missed something, but he didn't want to push it; for whatever reason, his friend seemed to be in an incredibly cheerful mood, going so far as to whistle _Weasley is our King_ on the way out of the room.

They met Hermione half an hour later for dinner, who seemed extraordinarily excited to tell them about some obscure fact she'd learned about the now-infamous (to them, anyhow) Mr. Uruquart, which was then quickly followed by her grilling Harry on why he'd yet to ask Professor Lupin about starting Occlumency lessons. "I'll get around to it!" the seeker insisted. "It's not like we haven't got all year, and besides, I already sort of got a start on it with Snape–"

"Yes, and remind us again, how well did that go?" Hermione asked pointedly. Harry coughed and quickly stuffed a bite of shepherd's pie into his mouth.

The evening's activities were mostly consumed with doing homework, particularly on Hermione trying to explain the transfiguration lesson from that morning. At around ten, the Head Boy and Girl bid farewell to their friend, who happily took the opportunity to cast aside his notes and curl up with his fiancé in front of the roaring fire, and they left to do their rounds.

"I've got news," Ron said the moment the door to the common room closed. Hermione raised her eyebrows, and her boyfriend spent the next half an hour explaining everything that had happened during his detention with Professor Lupin.

By the end of it, tears were glittering in the witch's eyes. "Oh, Ron, that's wonderful!" she exclaimed. "I knew you seemed happier this evening– oh, do you really think he'll be able to help?"

"Dunno. I guess we'll see, won't we?" But there was a hope and relief in his expression that told her that he couldn't help but believe everything would turn out alright. Smiling, she took his hand in hers and gave it a comforting squeeze. Ron smiled down at her, blue eyes gleaming with happiness, and she felt her heartbeat quicken. Blushing, she looked away, but Ron caught her by the shoulder. "Hey," he said sincerely, "You deserve some of the credit, too. If it hadn't been for you, I dunno if I'd ever have told anyone, let alone screamed it at a teacher." Hermione chuckled. "I dunno, I guess I just… I heard you, in the back of my head, telling me it was okay, y'know? That it was okay to need help."

"Of course it is," she urged. "You don't have to do it all alone, Ron, no one does. Remember how many times we had to tell Harry that? I swear, if I have to go through that again with you–"

"Oh, bloody Merlin, _no,"_ he said, laughing. "There is no way I'm going to be that insufferable, not _ever."_ She grinned, and he added, "Y'know, 'Mione, I honestly don't know what I'd do without you."

She blushed harder and ran a hand through her frizzy hair. "You'd get along, I'm sure–"

"No," he cut her off, "I mean it. You're… you're incredible, Hermione. Just honestly incredible."

The witch stared, utterly unsure how to reply. It seemed Ron had no idea how to continue the conversation, either; he, too, was very swiftly turning red, the flush creeping up his cheeks and to the tips of his ears. Hermione felt her breath catch as she realized what was about to happen; slowly, almost uncertainly, Ron touched her chin, tilting it upwards, and-

 _BANG!_

Both jumped apart as a noise like a gunshot ricocheted down the corridor. "What the bloody basilisks was that?" Ron demanded, startled.

"I- I don't know- I–" Hermione was not doing nearly so good a job of recovering from the swift change in atmosphere as her boyfriend, but both of them latched onto the same general plan: namely, hurrying down the hall in the direction of the noise. They rounded the corner at the end and found themselves confronted by the scene of Adrian Harold, Marcus Higgs and Billy Hobbes facing down none other than one Draco Malfoy. All four had drawn their wands.

Ron swore violently and drew his own, rushing forward. "And what the bloody fuck is this supposed to be, eh?" he demanded, pushing his way between the two groups. ("Ron! Language!" Hermione snapped, before apparently realizing that this was not the time and hurrying forward to help). "It's half ten; what are any of you doing out of your common rooms? Well?"

Malfoy was the first to speak, stowing his wand and scowling at the trio of boys with obvious venom. "I _was_ going back to my common room," he explained acidly, "I was coming from the library and decided to stop by the kitchens. Figured I may as well since I was already late; then _these_ three corner me and–"

"That's not true!" Harold cut in. "We were coming back from the library too; he followed us and tried to curse Marcus–"

 _"You_ followed _me,_ you snivelling little–"

"Alright, all of you, that's enough!" Hermione cut in, silencing both parties. "We heard a noise, very loud; which of you caused it?"

"…That was me," Adrian Harold admitted, "I dropped the book I got from the library."

"A book? Let me see it." He quickly retrieved a small black tome from his bag and handed it to her; Hermione check the stamped date and nodded, handing it back. "And you," she said, turning to Malfoy, "You said you were going to the kitchens? How would you get in?"

"You tickle the pear in the portrait of the bowl of fruit," he answered promptly. At her obvious surprise, he added, "Lavender Brown told me."

The Head Girl turned to the Head Boy, who blushed a bit and admitted, "I took her down there once or twice."

Hermione exhaled a rather world-weary sigh. "Alright, well… seeing as we're clearly not going to sort this out without veritaserum or the like, you four can go– but I want you going straight back to your common rooms! And five points apiece from your houses for being out after curfew!"

Clearly grateful to be getting off so lightly, the trio of Gryffindors quickly headed off towards Gryffindor Tower without complaint. Hermione gave a cool nod to Malfoy and turned, taking Ron's hand in hers.

"Oy!" the Slytherin called from behind them. Both turned, startled, and Malfoy flushed shifting his feet. "…They said Potter suspended them from the team," he asked uncomfortably. "That true?"

Ron nodded; Malfoy looked absolutely floored by this information. "Well–" he stammered, and then collected himself, straightening up. "Well, tell Potter I don't need him to fight my battles. I can take care of myself just fine, thank you."

Ron blinked even as Hermione gave another exasperated sigh. "Uh- right. Yeah, I'll do that."

"Right."

"Right."

The two stared at each other for a long moment, and then Malfoy turned on his heels and walked away. Hermione gave a loud snort as he disappeared around the corner. "What's up with you?" said Ron, surprised.

"It's just– _men!_ You're so-!"

But Ron could see that she was laughing, and he grinned. "Ah, you know you love us," he snickered, wrapping his arms around her and tickling her stomach, prompting his girlfriend to squeal and smack at his arms, giggling all the while.

* * *

Diagon Alley was busy and full of blustery late-October wind when Remus appeared in the street with a _crack_ the next morning _,_ startling several nearby pigeons. Shoppers were hurrying to and fro in the autumn chill, speaking in cheerful tones, and the professor breathed a sigh of contentment; this was Diagon Alley at its finest, full of bustling patrons and the sound of a thousand ordinary concerns. Every shop was open, bursting with life, from _Flourish and Blots_ to _Quality Quidditch Supplies._

Every shop, that was, except one.

A small group of children had gathered around the shop windows of _Weasley's Wizard Wheezes,_ looking up forlornly at the signs. "–I don't think it's going to open up again," one of the boys said forlornly. "Been closed for _months…"_

"Hey, Mister!" another called excitedly, noticing Remus head for the doorway, "Are you going in? Do you know the owners?"

"Ah- as a matter of fact, I do," the professor replied, surprised. Immediately he was surrounded by a crowd of children, tugging at his cloak.

"You've got to talk to them, Sir!"

"Oh please, we loved their toys and jokes ever so much!"

"Can't you convince them to open up again?" one little girl pleaded, with a trembling lip.

"I–" Remus hesitated; the girl's question had hit him doubly hard, both for the fact that no, he could guarantee nothing, and also for the fact that the children had said _them._ Clearly, they did not know that one of the Mr. Weasleys would not be returning to the counter. "…I can certainly bring it up," he settled on eventually.

"Jack! Get over here!"

The children looked over to see a witch standing across the street; one of the boys broke off from the group, clearly confused, and ran over. _"But mum, I told you I was going to the joke shop–"_

The witch cut him off and knelt down, whispering quietly yet frantically to him, shaking her head and pointing to Remus. Though he couldn't hear all that she said, his sensitive hearing did catch on one word in particular: _"werewolf."_

The boy– Jack– looked over at Remus, clearly surprised, who ducked his head and turned towards the door. As the witch began to pull her son off down the road, Remus glanced back to see the boy still looking at him over his shoulder. Despite himself, Remus gave him a grin and a wink, nodding to the store. The boy smiled excitedly in response, and somehow, that raised Remus's mood far more than anything else.

With a swift unlocking charm he opened the door; technically it was breaking and entering, but he doubted that that would matter much in the end, whichever way the confrontation went. Approaching the front counter, glancing about him with sadness at the many silent and joyless toys that sat dusty in their bins, he caught sight of a service bell and tapped it lightly, then again. Above him there came the sound of footsteps, and then they stopped.

Grinning in a rather Marauderish way, Remus then took to ringing the bell over and over as loudly as he could, making sure that George could not possibly ignore it. From above he heard a door open and slam shut, and then the sound of stomping footsteps coming down the stairs and an annoyed voice shouting, "The sign says closed, or can't you read, you–"

George stopped short as he caught sight of Remus, pausing on the stairway. "Oh," he said, startled. Remus noticed that, although the definite smell of alcohol was on his clothes, it was nowhere near strong enough to signify a recent binge, nor were his eyes red enough to show him drunk; that was fortunate, it meant that George had not yet given to taking the firewhiskey with his morning toast. "Professor Lupin," the shop-owner continued, a bit awkwardly; it was clear he had no idea what to do. "Um, how're you doing?"

"Quite well, thank you," the professor replied politely. "And yourself?"

"Oh, um, fine, yeah, I'm… er, can I help you, or…?"

"Yes, I've got a request for you, school business– has to do with those delightful candies of yours, actually." He nodded to the stairway. "Mind if I come up?"

"Oh. Um–" It was clear that the cogs were turning in George's head; obviously he was hiding something in the apartment that he did not want Remus to see. "It's a bit of a mess right now, actually–"

"Oh, that's no trouble," Remus laughed. "You forget I live with Dora; never a tidy moment."

"Well- er- yeah, of course, just give me a mo'– I'll clean up–"

"Certainly," Remus agreed, "Thank you so much."

"Right. Um- I'll just call down, then–" The young man quickly hurried up the stairs, and Remus waited patiently for about a minute before he heard George call down, "Alright, come on up!"

Remus obliged, ducking around the counter and walking up the stairs to the flat above. It was a nice place, he appreciated as he stepped inside; the kitchen was separate from the living room, in which were stored neatly stacked boxes marked for testing goods, and there seemed to be a lavatory and a pair of bedrooms off to the side. "I'll make some tea, shall I?" George offered, wringing his hands; it was the only outward sign that he was nervous.

"That would be lovely, thank you." He waited until George disappeared into the kitchen, and then immediately took off the top two layers of boxes and checked within the bottom.

Just as he had suspected, the box contained what appeared to be a week's worth of empty firewhiskey bottles and crushed cans of muggle beer. _Well, probably two weeks,_ Remus reasoned, realizing that George Weasley probably did not drink nearly so much as Sirius had, following his stint in Azkaban. He pulled out several of the empty bottles to find a shallow layer of crushed glass at the bottom.

"So do you take anything with your tea, Professor, or–"

Remus stood and turned; George stopped in his tracks. His mouth worked noiselessly for several seconds, before he managed, "Those are just-"

"Spare me; I already know." His voice wasn't harsh, only sad. "Ron told me."

"He _told_ you?" George demanded furiously.

"Yes, and I'm quite glad he did; trying to sober up his older brother a country away is not a duty to be laid on the shoulders of a student."

George swallowed and looked away. "I didn't ask him to worry about me," he muttered. "I told him to leave off of it–"

"He's your brother. He would have done whether you asked him or not."

The lone twin didn't comment on that, leaning against the doorframe, seemingly counting floor tiles. "So what is this?" he demanded flatly. "Some sort of intervention? Aren't there usually supposed to be more people?"

"No, George, it's not an intervention," Remus said quietly, walking forward. "If I thought you had a problem with alcohol it would be, but I don't."

George looked up at him, startled. "What?"

"You're not an alcoholic, George, not yet. But if you keep doing this, you will become one, of that I assure you. That's why I'm here."

"I don't understand…"

"You're not drinking to drink," Remus said firmly, "You're drinking to forget. So we're going to have a conversation. A conversation about Fred."

He knew he'd hit the right nerve when he saw a spasm of terror flash across the twin's face. George's voice escaped him, choked and broken: "I- about–"

"And since you were kind enough to ask, I take milk and sugar," Remus said lightly, brushing past him into the kitchen. "Do you mind?"

"Oh- um- no- I- Professor?"

Remus didn't answer, simply went about preparing the tea, leaving George to stand awkwardly in the doorway. That was intentional; he knew from experience that the best way to approach an uncomfortable conversation was by giving the other no time to worry, sitting alone in their anxiety and trying to plan a defense. "Milk or sugar?" he called over his shoulder, pouring the tea from the kettle into a pair of cups.

"Er- sugar, I s'pose…"

"Alright then." He added a lump, stirred it and handed the cup to the young man, who took it with an utterly baffled expression. "Shall we?"

"A-alright…"

Again Remus took the lead, leading the way back into the sitting room and taking a long draught of tea as he sat down on the couch. George sat down in the armchair opposite him; the latter bore a ridiculous lavender flowering pattern which it seemed the twins had attempted to make less obnoxious by charming the flower vines to spell out rude words. Remus took a moment to admire the spellmanship– James and Sirius would have found it hilarious– and then grew more solemn as he approached the problem at hand. "George," he said seriously, setting the cup down on its saucer, "You and I both know that the way you've been living isn't healthy."

"Frankly, professor, I don't think it's any of your business," the redhead replied, but his voice was very cool, very cordially final. It didn't suit him at all.

"I think you'll find it is my business, especially since you seem to be stubbornly insisting not to make it anyone else's." The shop owner didn't answer, and Remus sighed. "George, believe me, I'm not judging you for this. I of all people have no right."

"Beg your pardon?" the man replied, startled.

"I reckon I was Ogden's number-one patron for a solid six months after the end of the first war." The werewolf smiled bitterly. "It worked for a while, but I promise you, George, it won't work forever. And when the grief comes back after putting it off for so long, it comes in a flood."

George looked down, not meeting his eyes. There was another long pause, and then he said quietly, "You said you didn't think I was an alcoholic."

"And I don't. If you were, you'd be drinking for the drink's sake, but both of us know that isn't true." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "I know it's hard, believe me, I do. But I want you to talk to me about Fred."

George sighed, staring at the wall over the couch, and shrugged his shoulders. "What about him?"

"Anything. Everything." When the redhead hesitated to answer, Remus added, "The funniest story you have about him, perhaps. Or the best prank you ever pulled."

There was a long silence, so long that he was afraid that his plan wouldn't work. But then, ever so slightly, he saw the corner of the man's mouth twitch, and he knew he'd gotten through.

"…How much, exactly, did you hear about how we left the school?" George asked, the twitch beginning to turn into a smile.

Remus chuckled. "Oh, I got the gist of it from Harry. Flew out on broomsticks, yes?"

"What?! That's all that little twerp told you?!" George was indignant. "We put _months_ into that plan! Had to pull all-nighters in the _library_ just to figure out how to disarm her anti-summoning wards!" He shuddered as if the very notion of bookshelves were a taboo. "And that was just the tail end of it!"

"Pun intended?"

"Absolutely. No, you've got to hear the whole story, we–" He stopped suddenly, flushing, and said, "er… if you don't mind, Professor?"

Remus gestured widely. "By all means."

And so began the tale of the Great Weasley Escape. By the end of it, Remus was nearly in tears from guffawing so hard. "A swamp!" he howled. "In the hallway! And the fireworks! Bloody basilisks, George, I wish I could have been there to see that."

"Frankly, Professor, I'm surprised you're not scolding me."

"Oh, no, no, that wouldn't be fair, not after some of the pranks I helped along in school. And if anyone deserved it, it was _Madame Undersecretary Dolores Jane Umbridge."_ He rolled his eyes and muttered, "Toadish bitch…"

George choked violently on his now-cold tea, and Remus chuckled. "Don't tell my wife I said that."

"Oh, 'course not."

The two grinned at each other for a moment, and then, slowly, the smile slipped from George's face. He looked down into his empty teacup. "…Does it ever get better, Professor?" he nearly whispered. "Does it ever stop feeling so…?"

Remus hesitated a moment, and then replied softly, "It gets easier. You'll always feel that ache, that sensation of loss… but that just means that you loved him, George."

"But how do you go on?" He almost didn't seem to be talking to the professor now- more to himself, if anyone. "How do you keep living when your friend, your brother, is dead?"

Lupin sighed, nodded. "…After James and Lily died- and, I thought, Peter, all at Sirius's hands… I truly wanted to die. I had nothing. I hadn't even been allowed to take Harry and raise him as my own. I'd asked Dumbledore, you see, but he'd said Harry had to be with family, it was the only way to ensure his safety… the Order had broken up, no longer necessary, and I felt utterly and desperately alone. Without purpose. Without hope.

"I was halfway to suicide by firewhiskey and probably would have gone on that way until I achieved my goal, but one morning I heard a knock at the door. When I opened it, I saw a very cross Minerva McGonagall looking back at me."

"Professor McGonagall?" George repeated, startled.

Remus nodded. "She alone seemed to have remembered that there had been four Marauders- oh, yes," he said, as George dropped his spoon, "that was us: Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, Prongs. They became animagi for me. Sirius was Padfoot–a dog, as you know– and Peter was Wormtail, the rat."

"Then Harry's father-"

"James always took the form of a stag. We were the closest of friends… or so I'd thought. Then, in one fell swoop, it was over. They were gone, all in one form or another, and I had to find some way to continue on alone. I told McGonagall as much- told her I didn't see any point in going on without them. Do you know what she told me?" George shook his head. "She said that I owed it to them, to their memories, to keep going. She told me that they wouldn't have wanted me to give up hope."

"But what's the point in that?" George mumbled. "He's gone. It doesn't matter what he _would_ think because _he's gone."_

"You think so?"

He glanced up, startled. "He's _dead,_ Remus. Dead is dead."

"Everyone dies. I know that sounds like a cold comfort, but it's the truth. You, me, all of us, one day we'll all be gone." He gripped his shoulder tightly. "But this _isn't the end,_ George. There is more to us than blood and bones, and someday, you'll see your brother again– but not if you give up now. You _can't_ give up now."

George didn't speak for a long moment. When at last he opened his mouth, all he could do was draw a shuddering breath. Remus reached across the table and set a gentle hand on his shoulder as he started to cry. "I know. It's still hard."

"I m-miss him," he wept, "Every h-hour of every _day,_ I miss him! And every time, every time I look in a b-bloody _mirror,_ it's like l-losing him all over again! H-how do I move on if I c-can't even…"

"Believe me, George, I understand," Remus said thickly. "But what would Fred tell you, if he were here?"

George sniffled, swallowed. "He-'d- he'd call me an idiot… for thinking about ending it…"

"Good. Keep going."

"And he'd- he'd tell me- tell me I couldn't give up. Tell me that he wouldn't _want_ me to give up." He paused, and then said, with more conviction: _"He would want me to be happy."_

"Yes. He would."

"But how?" the redhead demanded. "How do I move on? Professor, I- I don't know how to be _me_ without _him!_ How can I- how do I get over him?"

"You don't," Remus said firmly, and then, at George's shocked look, continued, "I'm serious. You _don't_ move on from him, George, nor should you. I think that's the most common mistake people make when trying to cope with death; they want to forget what they've lost. But that, George, that's absolutely and utterly _ridiculous._ Loving other people, being in relationship with one another, that's what makes us human!

"Admit it," Remus added, looking at the young man sadly, "you've been miserable all these months, and not just because of losing Fred; you've cut yourself off from the world, from the ones who love you the most. You're trying to forget your brother because you think that if you don't have to feel the pain of loving him, then somehow it'll get better. But that's not happines, George, it's numbness. And being numb, being alone… that's not what we were made for."

"…Then what do I do?" the young man whispered. "What do I do, Professor?"

Remus smiled a pained smile. "You grieve," he replied honestly. "And you love. You said you don't know how to be _you_ without your brother, George, but I don't think you have to be. Fred always was, and always will be, your brother… and the love you have for him, that's part of what makes you who you are. I wouldn't want you to let go of that for the world."

George nodded and sniffled, and then his shoulders began to shake again. Remus waited patiently until the man's physical grief seemed to have worn itself out. When at last the broken sobs had subsided, he offered the man his napkin for a tissue. "Better?" he asked kindly.

George took a shuddering breath and nodded, attempting a shaky smile that came out more like a grimace. "Better out than in," he joked. Lupin chuckled. "Yeah. Yeah… Okay." He took a deep breath. "I think… I think I can do this."

"Glad to hear it. Now–" Remus stood, and offered him a hand; George accepted it. "I wasn't lying when I said I needed your help."

"Oh- with the class thing?"

"Precisely. You see, I'm training my students to fight dementors…"

George listened to the whole spiel, and then nodded once Lupin had finished. "I think I could probably pull it off," he agreed. "I'll have to rearrange some ingredients– maybe visit an apothecary– but no, that should work." Remus was delighted to see that a hint of his former ambition had returned to the young inventor's eyes.

"Excellent. Oh, and by the way, I promised a rather sad little girl that I would ask you about reopening the shop. Of course, I understand if you're not ready to–"

"No," George cut him off, voice stronger than it had been for the whole of their conversation. "No, I'll do it."

Remus blinked. "What, right now?"

"Sure. Why not? Besides." The ambition was growing, from a hint to a twinkle of excitement. There was heartbreak there, too, but it didn't dim the eagerness, only seemed to make it sweeter. "This old place has been quiet for too long; I don't think Fred would have liked it."

Remus watched in awe as the young man quickly led him back down the stairs; George pointed his wand vaguely at the ceiling, causing the candles to flare to life, and then, with deep breath and a determined grin on his face, snapped his fingers.

A wave of magic, gold and scarlet, rippled throughout the store, and as Remus watched every toy, trick and talking broomstick leapt to life on their shelves. The professor laughed in amazement as the shopkeeper hurried to the door, turned the _CLOSED_ sign to _OPEN,_ and flung the front door wide.

It was like magic– no, it _was_ magic; within minutes, it seemed every wizarding child in London had crowded into the shop, letting out whooping cries of joy and amusement. Remus looked to George and shook his head with another laugh, incredulous. "How did you…?"

"Sorry, Professor," the shopkeeper replied, crossing his arms and looking very satisfied with himself. "Weasley trade secret."

Lupin was just chuckling and about to bid his farewells when a small voice said from below them, "Excuse me, Sir?" The pair looked down to find a boy of perhaps seven or eight tugging on George's coat. "Aren't there usually two of you? Where's the other one?"

For a moment, George's face froze, and Remus feared that all his good work had been for naught. Then, the redhead smiled sadly and knelt down. "That was my brother, Fred," he explained to the child. "He died in the war."

"Oh. Gee, Mister, I'm really sorry."

"Nah, it's alright. He… he was a good man." There was a moment's quiet, a bittersweet silence, and then George went on. "D'you know what I miss most about my brother?" The boy shook his head. "Well Freddy, he had a knack for knowing exactly what every kid wanted. Now me, all I can do is guess, but let me see…" He studied the child, frowning pensively, and then snapped his fingers. "I know. How's about some Blue Ribbon Bon Bons? Turn your whole face blue– or whoever you wanna give 'em to, eh?"

The boy agreed enthusiastically, and George laughed, pointing him in the direction. Remus smiled to himself and headed for the door. Just as he was about to leave, he turned back. George smiled and gave him a grateful thumbs-up.

Remus smiled back, tipped his hat, and then disappeared out into the October chill, leaving the lively joke shop behind him.

* * *

It was much later that evening when Remus found his skills of persuasion called upon once again. After having returned from Diagon Alley and taken over care of Tedy from Minerva McGonagall (of whom Remus occasionally wondered if she was channeling the grandmotherly adoration of the late Hope Lupin, not that he thought his mother mind), he had spent the day grading papers and playing with the child until Dora came home. After sharing a quick kiss Remus had suggested she take Teddy down to the Great Hall while he returned his papers to his office in the classroom. Dora had acquiesced, and twenty minutes later, the professor was slipping down a secret ( and much faster) staircase towards the first floor, whistling to himself and flipping his office key into the air, unfailingly catching it with typical werewolf dexterity.

Fate is a funny thing. Some say it is merely coincidence, the random, senseless motion of the universe, following the laws of physics without purpose. Others say it is the hand of God, prompting man towards his destiny and end. Still others believe it to be some combination of the two. Whichever position one might take, it was a lucky stroke of fate that night that the professor failed to catch the key as it slipped through his fingers, bouncing down the steps with a _clink clink clink_ into the shadows below.

"Bugger," Remus muttered to himself, drawing his wand. _"Accio_ key!" Shortly after this utterance he realized how ridiculous it was, seeing as he had charmed the key himself to be impervious to any sort of summoning charm for fear of theft. With a sigh, he started down the staircase into the gloom.

The key had come to rest on the second-to-last step, gleaming against the stone. For a moment the professor dismissed this as his excellent night-vision, before he realized that there was an unexpected light in the corridor, a flickering, orange glow coming from around the corner. Surprised, he picked up the key and cocked his head, listening for any sounds. Presently he became aware of a rather strange sound: a sort of buzzing that would last for about a second and then be suddenly cut off, before beginning just as suddenly again. It sounded oddly familiar…

After a moment, he hit on it: that was the sound of a snitch, being caught and released with a seeker's practiced ease. Certainly he had heard it enough times while studying (or trying to) with James Potter, all those years ago. Curious, the professor crept around the corner, not wanting to startle the other occupant. When he saw who it was, he stopped in surprise.

Draco Malfoy sat alone in the abandoned corridor, sitting with his back to the wall and his wand lit with a tiny flame to his side, a halo of dim light in the darkness. Every few seconds or so he would release a feebly fluttering snitch, catching it before it could fly away. He seemed to be doing so without thinking, staring straight ahead, so obviously lost in thought that it was no surprise he hadn't yet noticed the professor. Unbidden, another memory, strangely similar in its appearance, rose to Remus's mind…

* * *

…The students burst out laughing as the neck of Theodore Nott's headless horsemen popped out of his ruffled collar to reveal none other than Minerva McGonagall. "Excellent, Theodore!" Remus cried. "Draco Malfoy, to the front!"

The young man sauntered forward, a confident grin on his face and wand at the ready. His classmates, clearly admirers, called out encouragement; Remus hid his chuckle at their antics, reminded of a certain young Black's false bravado in the face of his boggart. The monster spun and swirled in the air, shifting into a dozen different shapes before settling onto an image of a bloodsucking vampire with red-tipped fangs. The young Malfoy grinned and raised his wand–

Then, at the last second, the boggart changed. Remus barely had time to react before the room erupted with screams– and it wasn't only those of the students. Remus stared in shock at the sight of Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy convulsing on the ground before a towering cloaked figure, their white-gold hair stained with blood.

There was the clatter of wand hitting stone; Lupin's eyes flicked to the boy, his own heart hammering. Draco stared with wide eyes as the cloaked figure flicked his wand upwards; the screams faded to low sobs. _"So you thought me gone, did you?"_ the figure demanded, voice high and cold. Lucius struggled towards his "wife," stammering out pleas for mercy and groveling in a manner entirely strange on the image of such a proud man. _"A ghost, a mere phantom to be scorned for freedom and a position of respect? Was it really so easy to buy your loyalties?"_

 _"My lord– my lord, please–"_

 _"Such a pity."_ The figure's wand leveled. _"But even the house of Malfoy must pay for its misdeeds."_

"No," Draco gasped, stepping forward. "No– please–"

 _"Crucio!"_

Shrieks of agony split through the air. Draco stumbled forward, pleading with the cloaked figure. "Stop it! Please, just stop! They didn't mean it! Please, PLEASE–"

 _"CRUCIO!"_

The pair screamed in unison, backs arching, limbs spasming. Lupin at last managed to wake from his stupor, reaching for his wand, but before he could Draco Malfoy cried out:

"I'LL DO IT!"

The cloaked figure stopped, turning his shadowed face towards the boy with interest. Draco's face filled with a wild hope. "I'll do it," he choked out again, "Please, just leave them alone!"

The boggart-Voldemort looked him over, and then nodded. Draco bit his lip, swallowing hard. His hand twitched towards his sleeve-

"Riddikulus," Lupin said quickly, and the boggart became a silvery orb that crashed to the ground a moment later, shattering like a crystal ball.

Silence filled the room. Slowly, Remus turned to the boy. Draco looked back, trembling where he stood. His silver eyes were wide, tears rolling down his pale cheeks.

As if in slow-motion, the boy turned, robes rippling like waves, and fled out the classroom door…

* * *

It's often said that one choice can change your entire life. Perhaps in another world, Remus Lupin would have hesitated, and lost his nerve. Perhaps, if given another chance, he wouldn't have run after the boy, preferring to give him his space.

But on that day, in that life, Remus did not hesitate. And perhaps that made all the difference.

* * *

"–Draco! Draco, where are you–"

He rounded a corner and pulled to a stop, startled. There in front of him, alone in the deserted hallway, the young man sat, legs curled up to his chest and crying silently into his knees.

"Oh, Draco," Lupin sighed, walking over. The student looked up at him, red-eyed, and tried his best to scowl fiercely.

"Go away," he snapped. "I don't need you! Go on!"

Lupin merely stared, stunned and saddened. After a long moment, Draco looked away, sniffling. Slowly, ready to leave if the boy shouted again, the professor lowered himself down the wall until he was sitting beside him. Together they waited until the child managed to collect himself. "…If he ever comes back," Draco mumbled at last, swallowing thickly, "He'll kill them, or worse."

"Draco, your family is perfectly safe; Voldemort is gone-"

"Don't," he said sharply, looking at the professor with fierce eyes. "Don't lie to me. I'm not stupid like everyone else." His gaze was so startlingly intense that the professor found he couldn't speak.

"That's what he was trying to do first year, wasn't it?" the boy whispered, turning away again. "To- to come back. That's why Potter and Weaselby and the mudblood, that's why they went down the third-floor corridor. I dunno what they did, but they stopped him. And last year…"

"Draco-"

"That diary. The one the Dark Lord gave my dad. I looked at it once, you know. It's all empty. Not a word in it. And yet somehow a blank diary actually _possessed_ some little kid and controlled a great bloody _snake_ through her?" His face was pale. "Mum and Dad were up for hours, you know, every night for weeks after it happened. My dad said it was a- a something, I don't know what, but whatever it was, it was supposed to stop _him_ from dying." Draco swallowed and crossed his arms as if cold. "The Dark Lord is not a forgiving man, Professor," he whispered. "My family has already disappointed him too many times before. My parents thought if they helped him return, he wouldn't punish them. But they failed. And if he ever succeeds… we're as good as dead."

"We won't let that happen."

 _"You?"_ He laughed, but it sounded like a sob. "You and what army, Professor? He'd squash you flat in minutes." He shook his head. "There's only one way to stop that. Only one way to get the Malfoys back in his good graces."

Remus felt his blood run cold as it dawned on him. Draco swallowed, crossing his arms over his knees.

"You don't… you won't have to do that," the professor breathed at last. "Th-there'll be people, folks who'll help you-"

"Like who?" he demanded caustically. "Dumbledore? Dumbledore couldn't beat him last time, why should it be any different now? Oh, let me guess: _Potter?_ Because he's the bloody _Boy Who Lived?_ So what! I know him, Professor, and he's no one special. Some kid is not going to be able to take down the Dark Lord!" He wiped his eyes furiously, blinking hard. "I have to keep my family safe. I have to."

"Draco…" He couldn't believe he was having this discussion with a thirteen-year-old, a mere child. "There are- there are more important things in this world than the lives of our loved ones."

Malfoy laughed again at that, bitter and choked. "I bet you were a Gryffindor, weren't you, Professor?"

"Er- yes, but-"

"Well, I'm a Slytherin. The Malfoys have always been Slytherins." He fingered his green tie, a resigned look in his too-old silver eyes. "And to us, there is nothing more important than family."

Remus sighed wearily, knowing that he was not about to change the boy's mind. Yes, he knew the Malfoys… knew the Blacks, knew the Pettigrews and even the Potters. Blood, family, it ran strong in the upper pureblood circles. It had been that way for centuries and probably would be for centuries more. The boy sniffled and wiped his eyes again, not speaking a word.

For a very long time, the two sat there in utter silence, the professor heavy with tired dread, the boy looking straight ahead, shoulders hunched as if with cold. At long last, the Professor reached into his robes and pulled out a bar of chocolate. Draco glanced over, surprised, as he unwrapped it and broke it in half.

"Bit of a pick-me-up," he said, trying to offer a small smile. It didn't really work. "I think we could both use it."

The blond boy nodded and took it. "Thank you," he whispered hoarsely.

"And Draco- if you ever need help- I promise, I'll do whatever I can-"

He shook his head. "Thank you, Professor. But there's nothing you can do." He shrugged, though it looked as if he didn't truly mean it. "Maybe you're right. Maybe he'll just stay gone."

"Draco-"

"Please," he cut in, almost begging. "Please, can't we just let it alone?"

After a hesitant pause, Lupin nodded. Together they ate their chocolate, and then the professor helped the young man to his feet.

"I'm sorry," Draco mumbled, glancing up. "I really am."

And Lupin pretended he didn't know what he was talking about and ruffled his hair. "No harm done. Let's get you off to lunch, hm?"

* * *

In later years, the professor had always wished he had pushed harder, done more. Perhaps, he thought, he could have saved the boy from such a harsh fate. Perhaps the Malfoys could have provided resources, more lives could have been saved– goodness knew the Order could have used Lucius Malfoy's dueling skills on the field of battle. Perhaps, had things gone otherwise, his decision could even have helped prolong Professor Dumbledore's life; as much as he did and always would admire the man, the Order had needed desperately needed the headmaster's wisdom in their final hour, and for all his love and loyalty for him, Remus, who had suffered a condition far more debilitating for decades without relief, could not help but feel that Dumbledore had been just the slightest bit selfish to end it when he did. Perhaps it need never have happened; perhaps, perhaps…

But then, as now, Remus had been a coward, and it was too late to try to change the past. The professor made to back up, wanting to give the young man his privacy, but even as he did so his foot scuffed against the stone. Draco started out of his stupor, nearly missing the snitch as it tried to evade his grasp. "Professor," he said, surprised. His cheeks went red. "I was just–"

"Practicing," Lupin supplied. "I imagine your team will put it to good use in the first match– against Hufflepuff, isn't it?"

The young Malfoy's face went tight, and Remus knew he'd said the wrong thing. "You know, I realize I didn't quite thank you properly," he began, switching tactics. "For taking care of the boggart, I mean."

"Oh." Draco looked away with an aristocratic shrug, so very much like Sirius's. "Just repaying the favor."

Lupin felt the corners of his mouth twitch sadly, and knelt down on one knee beside the young man. "So. What happened?" he inquired quietly.

Draco was silent for a long moment, releasing and catching the snitch in rhythmic repetition. "…I'm seeker-reserve," he said finally, toneless.

"Er– well, I suppose congratulations are in order–?"

"No, congratulations are bloody well not in order!" He slammed his fist against the stone and stood up angrily. "Seeker-reserve, Professor! I have never, ever played reserve! Not once!"

"Draco, you've been away for some time," Lupin said carefully, rising to his feet, "it's no surprise you're not up to your usual speed–"

"I caught the snitch," Draco snarled. "I was the best on the field! And Blaise put me on bloody reserve! And do you want to know why? For being a scum-sucking, boot-licking, mudblood-loving _traitor!"_

"Watch your language!" the professor reprimanded sharply. The boy paced several steps away, running his fingers through his white-blond hair. After a moment he turned around, heaving a sigh.

"Sorry," he muttered, leaning against the wall. "I just…" He trailed off, eyes growing distant again. And that was when it clicked.

"This isn't just about Quidditch, is it?" the professor inquired gently. After a long moment of silence, Draco shook his head, not meeting the professor's eyes. Remus didn't speak further, and, leaden-limbed, the young man slid down the wall again, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"It's useless," he muttered. "What am I even doing here? What have I got to prove?" He opened his grey eyes and shook his head, staring at the opposite wall. "The world knows what I am, and that's never going to go away."

"But you've tried, haven't you?" the professor inferred. When Draco looked at him, surprised, he admitted, "I noticed the scars on your boggart's Mark. It was you, wasn't it?"

The teenager stared. "H-how did you–"

"Know?" He smiled sadly. "I suppose you could say it's intuition." The young man glanced away and didn't reply. "May I take a look?"

Draco wanted to say no. He wanted to snap that it was none of Lupin's concern and leave the corridor in an affected rage, when in all truth he was really just afraid. He wanted to forget this whole conversation had ever happened… but for whatever reason, he trusted the professor. So instead he hiked up his sleeve, extending the arm in front of him.

The Dark Mark stood out black on the pale skin- white and knotted, just as the boggart's had been. Lupin's eyes had turned sad; Draco saw the pity, and his stomach churned. He didn't want to be pitied. He didn't want the professor feeling sorry for him.

"You've done some bad work on this," Lupin said quietly, examining the scarred flesh. "You should really have Madame Pomfrey take a look at it."

"It's none of her business," he snarled, suddenly pulling away, the sleeve of his robe falling down to cover the Mark. "And it's none of yours, either!"

Remus fell silent, startled. Draco was refusing to look at him again, but the guilt on his features was plain behind the thin veneer of anger. So rather than grow offended, the teacher simply sat. And waited.

"…It was all a lie, wasn't it?" the student said at last, voice hardly more than a whisper. "That muggles would take us over if they could, and that mudbl- that muggleborns were dangerous. It was all a lie."

"Yes," Remus admitted. "It was a lie."

"But we believed it. _I_ believed it. The awful things we did, that was how we justified it. _'It's for the greater good,'_ we said, _'we have to protect ourselves, our families.' 'Sometimes sacrifices have to be made.' 'They're only getting what they deserve.'"_ His mouth was tight. "I've tortured people. Watched them die in front of me. I'm the reason Professor Dumbledore is dead, and that's not even the worst of it. If you knew– if you knew what I've done–" His voice broke off and he shook his head, looking down at the Mark with undisguised self-loathing. "They have a word for people who stand by and watch while others do evil things, Professor. And that word is coward."

Remus let out a low sigh through his nose, falling silent. Together the pair sat there for a long while, watching the tiny flame from the boy's wand flicker against the stone walls.

"You're right," he said at last, causing the student to look over in surprise. "You're right, Draco. You were a coward." He glanced down at the young man and said honestly, "But you're not the only one."

"Professor?" said Draco, startled.

"I have seen people do… do horrific, wretched things to others. And I've stood by and told myself that it wasn't my place to intervene, or that maintaining my cover was more important, but in all honesty I was just afraid. And that tears into me a little more every day." He paused, and then continued, "You're correct that I don't know the things you've done, and I don't need to; those things you have to learn to live with, to forgive yourself for, that's none of my business. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that people really can change if they try. It's never easy, but it's possible. I have to hope that it's possible… or else all of this, everything we fought for, it all means nothing." Lupin looked over, hoping he'd somehow managed to make his point. "Does that make any sense?"

Draco shook his head. "I don't know how. To change, that is… Professor, I know now that it was all a lie, but I can't help it." He paused, and then admitted forcefully, "I _don't_ like them. The mudbl- the muggle-borns, I mean." His face puckered, as if he had eaten something sour, and said with difficulty, "I know… that we were wrong. But I don't like them and I can't make myself like them."

Much to his surprise, Lupin began to chuckle. Draco looked over at him, wide-eyed; he couldn't possibly imagine what was funny about this situation.

"I'm sorry," the professor said, catching the boy's expression, and tried his best to stifle himself. "I don't mean to laugh at you, Draco, only– well, of course you don't like them! You've never been taught otherwise, have you?"

"No. But now–"

"But now you know better?" He chuckled again. "But _knowing_ doesn't much help _feeling,_ does it?" At the student's continued bemusement, Lupin shook his head and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. Draco, what I mean to say is that prejudice isn't just a choice; it's a– a pre-learned condition. Biologically speaking, you haven't much of a choice in how you _feel,_ not at the moment, anyways; you've been trained your entire life to think, to react, a certain way. That's going to take some time to unlearn; you can't just snap your fingers and expect your internal dispositions to become automatically virtuous." He snorted and muttered, mostly to himself, "If only life were so easy…"

"So that's it, then?" the boy demanded. "There's nothing for it? I'm just going to go through the rest of my life hating these– these people for no reason?"

"Certainly not. The really incredible thing about the human mind, Draco, is that it is remarkably trainable, with virtuous and vicious habits alike. " Lupin shrugged. "Certainly some of our character flaws are more stubborn than others, but I don't see any reason why you shouldn't be able to overcome this one in particular. The secret to forming any good habit, especially this one, is practice. If you can't make yourself like someone, start with acting as if you do; sooner or later you'll probably find yourself coming around."

The young man's frown had deepened. "You mean if I pretend to like muggleborns, sooner or later I'll start actually liking them?"

"Exactly."

"But that makes no sense!"

"And yet it works! Marvelous, isn't it?"

Draco was still staring at him as if he were mad, and Lupin chuckled again. "Just trust me on this one, Draco. I've seen it work before."

There was a pause, and then the young man sighed and said grudgingly, "Alright… I'll give it a go."

"Excellent." He stood and offered the student a hand up, and reluctantly Draco took it, standing up and tucking the snitch into his bag. "And by the way," the professor said firmly, setting a hand on his shoulder, "I don't think you're a bad person, Draco, whatever the mistakes you've made."

"Why not?" the student demanded, baffled. "Everybody else seems to think so. Why do you trust me so much?"

The professor gave him a wry smile, and Draco thought it looked rather sad. "Because if our mistakes make us who we are, then neither you nor I, nor anyone else, is worth believing in. And that's a pretty miserable world to live in, don't you think?"

After a pause, Draco nodded, a rather pensive look on his face. Remus slapped his shoulder. "Come on. Let's get some dinner, shall we?"

Together the pair walked off in the direction of the great hall. Once they could hear the clamor of students, Remus fell back and waved the boy forward. "Go on. I know full that walking in with a teacher would ruin your image."

Draco snorted and shouldered his bag. "It could hardly get much worse now, could it?" He hesitated, and then added, "Thank you, Professor. For everything."

Remus smiled and inclined his head. When he looked up, the boy was gone.

Smiling to himself, Remus waited a few minutes, and then walked around the corner into the Great Hall, heading for the staff table where Dora was sitting with Teddy, feeding the baby mushed peas. "Hey," she said, surprised, as he climbed the stairs to the dais. "There you are; what took you so long?"

"Teacher business," he replied vaguely. Dora got the hint and didn't push the subject. Dinner passed well enough, and by the time he was finished with desert Remus had nearly forgotten that the incident had ever happened.

That was, until a figure stood up from the Slytherin table and crossed the distance to the end of the Gryffindor table, where there sat the school's most famous students. Harry, Hermione and Ron all looked up, startled, as none other than Draco Malfoy looked back, shifting back and forth on his feat with an expression that said he'd rather eat his own arm than stand there another second. Nevertheless, he took a deep breath, seemed to swallow his pride and opened his mouth.

"Weasley told me you kicked Harold and his lackeys off the team," the Slytherin said bluntly, addressing Harry. "That was… decent… of you." His mouth twitched as if he wanted to sneer, but he composed himself and turned to Hermione. "And Granger, I never–" He coughed, "-er, never thanked you properly. So… well." Draco swallowed. "…Thank you. Both of you."

There was dead silence for what felt like an eternity as the trio (not to mention the eagerly listening staff table) stared at the Slytherin in shock. Malfoy cleared his throat, turning red. "Well, that's all I had to say," he muttered, turning to leave, "so…"

"Oy!"

The young man started and looked back. Ron Weasley had risen to his feet and was stepping over the bench, reaching for his wand; for a moment Draco was sure the redhead was going to hit curse him, but Weasley merely stuck his hands in his pockets. "Look," he said sharply, though he, too, was turning red, "I've been– well, I've been a real git to you. So… so I'm sorry." He stuck a hand out; Draco's eyes went wide. "Truce?"

Malfoy stared in shock; Ron stared back, biting his lip. Both could tell what the other was thinking, because both were thinking exactly the same thing: a Weasley, making a truce with a Malfoy? _My father would die for shame._

But then, the miracle happened: Draco stuck his own hand out and gave Ron's a very formal, business-like shake. "Truce," he said coolly, and then turned swept away.

Ron watched him go, and then sat back down to his food. Hermione and Harry glanced at each other, surprised, and then merely shook their heads and continued on with their meal, falling into conversation with the redhead as easily as if nothing had happened. The staff table, on the other hand, was still shocked to silence. "Did you make that happen?" Dora demanded, turning to her husband.

Remus cleared his throat. "Sorry, Love, that's confidential," he said lightly, and hid his smile in his goblet of pumpkin juice.

* * *

 ***This story will be explained in full in my other sister-story, "Among Wolves." Check it out if you like!**

 **A warning for all my readers: the next chapter, which takes place on the Eve of All Saints (Hallowe'en for you modern folk) is going to be a very theological, philosophical chapter. Why? Because I'm a theology major, and that's what I do. ;)**

 **In all seriousness, though, I have an in-cannon justification for this: at the end of the seventh book, in the "King's Cross/Limbo" scene, young Harry experienced some MAJOR theological/philosophical/epistomological shit, which was then never addressed. The kid freaking DIED, saw the other side, and CAME BACK FROM THE DEAD, and no one bothered to say, "Oh, by the way, Harry, is the afterlife really a train station? How intriguing." Not to mention that we can infer with a high degree of certainty that the Dursleys were not exactly religious folk. So, on top of all the ordinary teenagers-in-war PTSD going on, I'd imagine he'd have some pretty important questions, like, I don't know, WHAT IN THE WORLD HAPPENED TO HIM, that haven't yet been answered.**

 **Aaaand, enter Remus Lupin… the wise father-figure who, as an angsty twenty-something young man left basically alone in the world, chose a verse from 1 Corinthians 15 (an** _ **extremely**_ **important chapter for theologians) to inscribe upon the tombstone of his deceased best friends.**

 **So yeah. If you're not a fan of religion, you might want to skip over this upcoming chapter… or go ahead and read it, if you're feeling brave. In fact, do that. I highly recommend it.**

 **Don't forget to review! Pax et bonum!  
-FFcrazy15**


	19. Chapter 19: On the Eve of All Saints'

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do I profit from this work produced here.

 **Warnings (PLEASE READ): Remus and Dora *cough* living out the vocation of marriage; references to depression and attempted suicide; religious references; creepy Greyback; drinking alcohol; a lot of blood and violence. Seriously, this will probably be my bloodiest chapter yet; you have been warned. Also, all Welsh translations will be at the bottom of the page.**

 **Apologies (PLEASE READ): First, this is a very dialogue-heavy chapter, but the conversations make some important points.**

 **Second, I am not a theologian, just an aspiring theology major, so this is my attempt at my own theodicy (addressing what's known among philosophers as the Problem of Evil); this is not by any means the official teaching of the Roman Catholic Church and should not be taken as definitive, just the ramblings of a university student. I welcome any intelligent corrections from my fellow Catholics, or questions from those who are not.**

 **Third, I extend an apology to all my Protestant brothers and sisters, since I'm putting an attempt at Catholic theology into the mouth of a Welsh Presbyterian. *hopeful wince* Ecumenism, eh?**

 **Nymph: Naw, it's fine. Sorry if I came off a little harsh. :) No more Lupin babies planned at the moment, sorry; NFP is highly effective if done right and they've got a pretty good reason for trying to avoid getting pregnant again, so it wouldn't really fit.**

* * *

It was the week before Halloween, and everyone was in high spirits. Though the school hadn't the money to decorate the castle as festively as possible, all of the teachers had determinedly done their bit to make up for the lack of decorations; Hagrid had contributed several massive pumpkins from his garden, Madame Sprout had dressed up a surprising amount of suits of armor as scarecrows, and McGonagall had somehow managed to round up a clowder of black cats to stalk the castle, who, she claimed, owed her a favor (how exactly that had come about, no one dared to ask). Remus, for his part, had suspended his Halloween blues long enough to charm the walls of his classroom orange and string them with spider webs. Even the ghosts were making the effort, popping out at snogging teenagers from the shadows and shouting "boo!" (Or, in the case of the Fat Friar, giving a kindly tsk of the tongue and an encouragement to run along).

All of this effort and good cheer miraculously managed to distract Remus from the more pressing weight of the holiday until Dora brought it up one Tuesday evening as she was feeding Teddy: "So I'm guessing we won't be attending the faculty costume party?"

"Hm? Why ever not?" Remus replied absently, chewing the end of his quill pensively as he debated whether he should dock points for poor grammar. Tonks looked over at him in surprise.

"I thought you were going to Godric's Hollow?"

Immediately, his good mood came crashing down; Remus looked up at his wife, stunned, and saw the realization cross her eyes. "You forgot, didn't you? Oh, Remus, I'm so sorry- I didn't mean to bring it up–"

"No, it's…" He trailed off, setting his quill down. How could he have forgotten? All Hallow's Eve. The day of Voldemort's first downfall, the beginning of thirteen years of peace.

The day he'd lost his family forever.

"…It's fine," he said lowly, nearly whispering.

Dora frowned sadly and walked over to stand beside him at the table, bouncing a sleepy Teddy on her hip. "You don't have to go, you know," she said gently, touching his cheek with her free hand. "James and Lily would have understood. Sirius, too."

Remus snorted. "Sirius wouldn't have even wanted me to be there. Probably would've told me to get drunk and streak through the halls if I really wanted to commemorate him."

"Mm. I'd advise against that, love." She winked and added cheekily, "Although I can't say I wouldn't enjoy the show."

Remus tried to smile at the joke, but it didn't really work. Sighing and rubbing his hand against the stubble on his chin, he shook his head. "I want to go. I do. It's just… it's not a good night to be alone. Not for me, anyhow."

"I know."

He glanced up at her, old grief plain in his hazel eyes. "Would you go with me?"

To his surprise, his wife hesitated. "I would," she said softly, sitting down in the chair beside his and resting Teddy on her lap. "I really would, Remus, but… I think there's someone else who needs it more."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. "You think I should take Harry."

"Why not? He told us himself he's only visited them once, and that little trip didn't exactly go well, didn't it?" She took his free hand in hers. "Love, he never even got to know them, let alone mourn them," said Dora softly. "And you knew them better than anyone… Remus, doesn't Harry deserve to really meet his own parents?"

For a long moment, her husband was silent. Remus's mind was in a struggle; he knew that going to Godric's Hollow would only be harder with Harry there. He knew, knew with a pain nearly as desperate as his love for his own child, that he had failed James's boy in so many ways… Harry ought to have been his nephew, if not his adoptive son, and instead he was his student. Remus wasn't sure he could face James with the evidence of that failure right beside him.

On the other hand, Dora was undeniably and inarguably right. Harry had a right to know his parents… and Remus, being the last of the Marauders, owed it to him to make sure that happened.

"…You're right," the teacher relented, running a hand through his hair. "You're right, Dora. I'll ask him tomorrow after class." He knew his wife approved when she grinned and pecked him on the cheek, ruffling his hair as she stood. "I'm not a dog," he reproved her, faking annoyance.

In response, Dora merely grinned, fluffed his hair some more and crooned, "Who's a good boy? Is it you? Is it?"

Remus rolled his eyes with a smirk and growled, to which his wife let out a gasp and batted at his nose. "None of that," she scolded, "Or you won't be getting any treats from me."

Remus chuckled to himself, though a red blush was creeping up his cheeks. Dora laughed and shook her head as she walked off into the other room, carrying a drowsy Teddy in her arms. The professor returned to grading essays and quickly became immersed once again, only to look up as a sharp whistle sounded from the bedroom.

If he'd had a tail at the moment, the werewolf felt sure he would have wagged it.

* * *

A sharp whistle sounded through the classroom, and the students halted in their work, looking towards the blackboard. Lupin nodded in satisfaction. "Alright, everyone, very nicely done!" he said, waiting for the last few whispers of conversation to settle down. "I've seen some absolutely remarkable improvement from many of you; for those of you who are ready, I think we can move on to the next stage."

The seventh-years glanced around at each other, surprised. They'd been practicing patroni for a week now, and nearly everyone had at last gotten the hang of it; the classroom had become a little crowded with various species of incorporeal fauna dashing about, leaping through each other and even rushing headfirst through the students on occasion, leaving the "victim" filled with a sense of remarkable good cheer. All had been feeling rather proud of their success, and wondered what more could there could possibly be to learn.

From within his desk drawer the professor produced what appeared to be a box of chewy candies, one side cerulean blue, the other a cheery yellow. Several of the students began to murmur, recognizing the sweets; Harry turned to Ron and muttered warily, "Aren't those the chews from the twins' Skiving Snackboxes?"

"Yeah," the redhead replied, frowning. "But I've never seen that sort before…"

"As many of you have probably guessed," Lupin called, quieting the whispers, "these are not ordinary candies, and I would not recommend taking them without careful deliberation. One Mr. George Weasley kindly developed them particularly for this class; he gave them the rather, er, _macabre_ name of 'Cheerless Chews.' Consuming the blue end will produce a similar sense of depression as caused by the dementors; the yellow end will return the user to a state of content. As I said," he added, looking at them all very firmly, "no one is required to practice with them, and if you are at all uncertain, I would advise against it. But for those of you who feel ready, the option is available."

There was a moment's uncomfortable pause, and then a few of the braver students made their way towards the box. As about a third of the class filed forward, the trio glanced at each other. "Do you really think we should?" Hermione asked, worried.

"May as well," Ron replied, though he, too, looked reluctant. "I mean, it's not like a patronus will be much use if you can't use it against dementors, will it?"

Although the witch still looked uncertain, she accompanied the boys up to the front of the classroom, and each took a Chew. They retreated back to their own corner of the classroom and looked around at each other. "Well, who wants to go first?" Harry said at last, breaking the silence.

More hesitation followed, and then Ron shrugged and replied, "I'll go." Harry and Hermione watched anxiously as the redhead bit into the blue end of the candy. Ron chewed, swallowed– and then, almost immediately, his face turned rather pale.

"Ron?" said Harry warily, but the redhead shook his head and waved him off.

"Fine. I'm fine…" He certainly did not look fine; the weight that had vanished from his shoulders over the last week had returned, and looked heavier than ever; the expression on his face was one of guarded pain and exhaustion. Still, he drew his wand and closed his eyes for a moment, seeming to focus. When he opened his eyes again, the blue irises seemed to be blazing, and he brandished his wand.

 _"Expecto patronum!"_

A silvery terrier burst forward and ran about in a circle for a moment or two, clearly looking for its master. Ron laughed despite himself, and the pup turned and dashed forward, rushing right through his caster's legs.

With another chuckle, Ron swallowed the yellow end of the candy and grew cheerful once again; Harry clapped him on the shoulder. "Well done, mate."

"It's not so bad; just takes some focus. Go on, Harry; give it a go."

The Man Who Lived was nervous at first, but he knew he could hardly balk under Ron's encouragement. Taking a deep breath, he raised the Cheerless Chew to his lips. There was a moment where all he could taste was the sour-sweetness of the crystal coating, and then the chew dissolved on his tongue.

The effect was instantaneous. A sense of black dread filled the pit of his stomach, and something worse– despair. A litany of faces filled his mind, of Fred and Cedric and little Collin Creevy, all looking up at him, pale and still. And faintly behind it all, like a static-broken voice from a radio, he could hear a woman screaming…

But this was nothing new; no, Harry had faced this before, and in stronger force from real dementors. He waved his wand and spoke the incantation; a moment later, a white stag joined the terrier. Harry popped the yellow end of the chew into his mouth and immediately found himself in a much better mood. With a grin he gestured to Hermione, who, emboldened by her friends' success, only hesitated a moment before eating the blue end of the candy. Her reaction was not nearly so dramatic as Ron's had been, though she did bite her lip very hard, and her hand was shaking when she drew her wand. She was holding the vine wood stave so tightly that the scars carved into her wrist had turned white.

 _"E-expecto patronum."_

Even as she spoke the words, Harry knew that they weren't strong enough; a puff of silver smoke appeared, but nothing substantial. Hermione drew a shaking breath and ordered again, this time with more force, _"Expecto patronum!"_

More smoke, brighter this time, but it wasn't enough. The bespectacled wizard watched as the girl tried a third time, and then a fourth, but to no avail. Tears were gathering in her eyes; the words were growing fainter and more upset-

"Hey," Ron said gently, stepping forward and catching her hand in his. Hermione looked up at him, flushed and nearly crying with embarrassment. "It's alright, 'Mione; just take a break, alright?"

Hermione looked away and then, reluctantly, ate the yellow end of the chew. Rather than growing happy as the others had, however, it seemed the most the candy could do for her was relieve its original effect; while Hermione no longer looked sad, she was still teary-eyed, now seemingly out of frustration. Without waiting for the other two to speak, she turned on her heels and stalked out of the classroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

Harry and Ron looked at each other, startled, and then hurried for the door, but before they could reach it a number of hands caught at their arms. "Oh, no no no," a familiar voice said, turning the former around; Ginny was vehemently shaking her head. "Trust me, you do _not_ want to follow her right now."

"Like Merlin we don't!" Ron retorted, pulling out of Parvati Patil's grasp and frowning. "She was in a right state!"

"And that's _exactly_ why you need to leave her alone," Lavender Brown said firmly.

"What?"

"Please, Ron, Harry, just trust us on this one," Ginny insisted. "Sometimes an angry girl just needs to be left alone for a bit."

Although this vague reasoning satisfied neither, least of all Ron (who was frowning with confusion and worry), the pair agreed that they wouldn't leave. When Lupin came over and inquired about the witch's absence they explained, and the professor nodded, looking concerned but unsurprised. "I was hoping that wouldn't happen… thank you for telling me, Ron, Harry. I think it's best if we let her be for a while– ah, yes, Mr. Goldstein?"

As Lupin was called away to help another pair of students, Ron and Harry returned to practicing. Neither were feeling particularly cheerful at the moment, so they left off with the Chews and tried their best not to worry about their friend. Both considered skiving off Transfiguration to go find her, but they knew Hermione would be fit to be tied if she realized they'd skipped classes for her sake, so it wasn't until lunchtime that the two had the opportunity to search.

To be fair, it wasn't much of a question of _where_ she would be, but more _what_ they would say when they found her. "What do you think she was so upset about?" Ron wondered for the hundredth time as they hurried through the halls towards the library.

"I don't _know,_ Ron," Harry replied again, now starting to get a little annoyed.

"Maybe her parents? I dunno, she was pretty broken up about having to send them away. Or maybe–"

"Mr. Weasley! Mr. Weasley!"

Both students stopped short as a small child rushed up to them, more out surprise that someone had called Ron "Mr. Weasley" than anything else. The first year skittered to a halt, breathing heavily; he was very red in the face and seemed near to tears. "Sir, you've got to help me, something really awful has happened–"

"Whoa, kid, slow down," said Ron, startled. "What's going on?"

"It's Bram, Sir– we got in a duel– he hit his head and he's not waking up, Sir, I didn't mean to kill him, I promise-!"

"Okay, calm down, I'm sure you didn't kill him," said the Head Boy with a sigh. "Harry–"

"I'll go find Hermione," the other Gryffindor promised.

"Thanks. Okay, kid, show me where he is…"

As Ron hurried off after the distraught first-year, Harry turned the corner and headed for the library. Madame Pince gave him a suspicious look when he walked in, but thankfully didn't follow him as he wandered through the library, checking into Hermione's usual nooks and favorite armchairs. When the witch was nowhere to be found, he left and headed in the direction of Gryffindor tower, more than a little worried. For Hermione to go anywhere than the library, she must have been _really_ upset. He was just passing by the Defense classroom, wondering where in the world his friend could be, when he heard a voice that brought him to a halt:

 _"E-expecto patronum."_

"That's a good start," Lupin's deeper tenor encouraged, "But it needs to be stronger, Hermione. Try a happier memory."

Harry crept closer, ignoring the feeling of guilt that crept into his stomach at eavesdropping. "Have one?" the teacher's voice inquired, and the lighter, somewhat thick tones of a young lady replied: "I-I think so." The sound of a breath being drawn, and then again, _"Expecto patronum!"_

A whoosh of magic, and a slight humming for a moment or two, before the noise puffed out of existence. "Nicely done," Harry heard Lupin say, but it seemed Hermione was less than pleased.

"But it's useless!" she cried, and the boy could hear her feet pacing away anxiously across the stone. "What good is it being able to do it here in a classroom if I can't do it out there, in the real world?"

"That's why we practice," he mollified. "You'll get it eventually…"

"But everyone else got it! And Professor, I've never– I just don't understand _what_ I'm doing wrong!"

"Hermione, you mustn't be so hard on yourself. Everyone has their difficulties; why should you be any different?"

"Even so…"

The witch's voice faded off. For a moment there was silence, and Harry wondered if he should turn the corner now and pretend he hadn't been listening in, but before he could he heard Hermione sniffle. "Professor, I'm so sorry," she mumbled, sounding mortified. "For running out of class this morning, I mean… what you must think of me…"

"You know, I had troubles with the charm at first, too," Harry heard Lupin say kindly.

"But you have every right to be afraid of the dementors. What you must see when they come near you…"

A chill ran down Harry's back; he suddenly remembered something Lupin had told him in his third year: _"It has nothing to do with weakness, Harry. The dementors affect you worse than the others because there are horrors in your past that the others don't have."_ He hadn't bothered to wonder at the time how Lupin had known, but now…

"True," replied Lupin lightly; Harry peeked around the corner of the door. Hermione looked incredibly embarrassed. "Although I'd hardly say your school years have been a summer picnic." The witch gave a watery chuckle at this. "Actually, the reason I had trouble with the spell even to begin with was not what I experience when I come too near a dementor, as we weren't using the charm against any particular target at that point. No, my problem was _confidence."_

"Confidence, Sir?" Hermione questioned, baffled.

"For all my efforts, I knew that deep inside, I didn't _want_ to produce a patronus. As you well know, a patronus takes its form from the most distinctive characteristics of the caster- yours, for instance, is an otter likely because otters are known to be very compassionate, intelligent creatures."

"I don't understand…?"

"I was terrified that my patronus would be a werewolf," Lupin said quietly. "Although the spell usually takes the form of a non-magical animal, this is not always the case. My fear was not even so much of my classmates discovering my condition, but rather that, at my inner core… I dreaded the possibility that my truest self was ultimately something monstrous. When at last I did manage it, I felt that all my worst nightmares had been confirmed."

"But it's not," Hermione urged him. "It's an ordinary wolf-"

"A fact which, in the depths of my terror, quite escaped me," said Lupin calmly. "I left class that day in a state of utter despair… and that night, I snuck out of bed. I was entirely prepared to throw myself headfirst off the astronomy tower- better that, I reckoned, than subject those I loved to any further danger."

Harry felt his stomach twist painfully; Hermione let out a low gasp. "But how-"

"Professor McGonagall found me there, sobbing like a first-year." He shook his head. "It had been a tough year by a number of standards. I could find no joy in living and no hope for the future… I genuinely thought myself a monster. She talked me down off the ledge, quite literally, and helped me to see that, while necessarily one's struggles must define them, it is the choice of those who suffer them whether we will be allow ourselves to be victimized, or if we will endure them to grow stronger and more virtuous– to be purified by pain, as it were." He smiled slightly. "I will always be thankful to her for that. She showed me that, for all the shame my condition caused me, the true heart of who I am is not something wicked or disgusting. I still didn't like producing a corporeal patronus- it was too risky- but after that, the charm didn't cause me any further problems."

"But that's still so different," Hermione protested. "You had a good reason to have trouble with the charm. I-I'm just…"

"Hermione, when was the first time you tried to produce a patronus?"

She paused, and then said with a slight frown, "The day we met Sirius. They day you transformed without your potion."

"And the day," Lupin said fairly, "That Harry saved Sirius from the dementors, yes?" Hermione nodded. "What happened?"

"I-" She swallowed, hard, and Harry realized with surprise that tears were brimming in her eyes. "I couldn't do it. I passed out- Harry had to defend himself, _alone-"_

"And ever since that day, you've been unable to produce a corporeal patronus in the presence of a dementor, correct?" Lupin questioned. She nodded miserably. "Hermione, you're blaming yourself for something which could not have fairly been expected of you! Harry had had months of training; it's no wonder he could produce a patronus and you couldn't!"

"But that wasn't the only time! In the Ministry- we were attacked- he said it himself, it's the only spell I've ever had trouble with-"

Harry immediately felt guilty; he hadn't realized Hermione had caught his words.

"And the only reason you have trouble with it when facing a dementor- when facing a real threat, and nowhere else- is because you're afraid of failure," Lupin cut in. "And not just failure, but failure to defend those you love. That's your boggart, isn't it?" She nodded, looking utterly humiliated. "Hermione, that is a very noble fear. It shows that you care deeply for those around you- so much that you put it upon yourself to protect them."

"But I can't," she whispered. "Harry's good at that, not me. I'm just…"

"You're just a brilliant witch, who defended your fellow students against great danger on numerous occasions. Who stood by your friends and your convictions even when the future looked bleakest. Who would extend kindness without hesitation to anyone in need of it. Hermione, you are a capable witch and a compassionate, magnanimous young lady. And if the only concern keeping you back from succeeding in this spell is the fear of failure itself, then I think it will suffice simply to remember that it is neither our failures nor our accomplishments that define us, but rather the goodness of heart by which we attempt them. Does this make sense to you?"

She was quiet for a moment, and then nodded. Lupin stood up and offered her a hand, which she accepted. "Why don't you give it another go?" he suggested. "Although looking at the state you're in, I wouldn't recommend using the candy-"

"No," Hermione interjected, and then flushed red, realizing she'd cut off a teacher. "I, er, I mean- I want to try it. As if it were the real thing."

Lupin hesitated, and then nodded, taking a wrapped sweet out of his pocket. Hermione undid the casing and bit off the orange half of the gummy. A moment later, she bit her lip, and tears filled her eyes again.

"Steady now," said Lupin encouragingly. "A happy memory, Hermione. The strongest one you have."

She took a deep breath and nodded. _"Expecto patronum,"_ she said clearly, though her voice shook slightly, and flicked her wand.

The silvery form of an otter burst from her wand and swam about in the air. Hermione smiled despite herself, and Lupin clapped, nodding enthusiastically. "Well done, Hermione! Well done indeed!"

She waved her wand; the otter vanished, and she quickly bit into the yellow half of the gummy. A moment later, her smile grew. "I did it!" Then, she frowned. "But that was only a piece of candy, hardly the real thing-"

"It's a start, a very good start," Lupin countered with a smile. "Keep practicing, and I'm sure you'll get it."

Hermione chuckled. "Alright. Thank you, Professor." She turned to go, and then glanced back. "And so you know, I won't tell anyone what you told me. I-I'm honored that you trusted me so much… no one else will ever know."

"Well, you can tell Ron if you like. And I'm sure Harry heard every word from behind the doorframe."

The dark-haired teenager started, tripped, and fell flat on his backside. "Oof!"

Hermione hurried over and looked around the doorpost, startled. "Harry?"

He stood up, blushing sheepishly and rubbing his back. "Er…"

"How much did you hear?" said Lupin quietly, approaching the door with arms crossed and brow raised.

Harry went redder still. "Er… pretty much everything…"

"Hm. Fifteen points from Gryffindor for sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong." The teacher's words were sharp, but his expression softened to show that he knew the young man was only concerned about his friend. Hermione seemed less convinced; she, too, had gone red, and wasn't meeting the young wizard's eyes. The professor cleared his throat and checked his battered old watch. "Well. I suppose I'd best be on my way; I was going to meet Dora for lunch. Good day, Harry, Hermione," he said, and gave the former pointed look when the young man winced. The message was clear: _you're on your own._

As the professor swept off down the hall, Harry turned shame-faced to his friend. Hermione was staring at the floor. "Hermione–"

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it was rude to spy on people?" she snapped, though she didn't look up.

"I was just worried about you," he replied apologetically. "Ron was, too– he'd be here now, 'cept he had to go stop some first years from killing each other–" Hermione snorted, and then crossed her arms, looking anywhere else. "…I never knew you felt like that," said Harry awkwardly.

"Well of course I do, Harry," the witch sighed, finally meeting his eyes. "You're– you're so good at _everything,_ it just comes naturally to you…"

"Are you kidding?" he demanded. "You're the genius one, Hermione! You realize I wouldn't have passed Transfiguration without you, right? Ron and me both!"

"But that's classwork!" she protested, and tears were in her eyes again. Harry was baffled; why were girls so confusing. "That's just _practice,_ Harry! You saw me last year, I– oh, I couldn't do _anything_ right, not out there in the real world! I couldn't do anything, not when it really counted, and that's what matters, not–"

"Not books and cleverness?" he broke in. She looked up at him, surprised, and then sighed and gave a hopeless nod. "Hermione," Harry said firmly, "Do you have any idea how dead I would be right now if it weren't for your books and cleverness?"

"I don't–"

"Figuring out the potions riddle," he ticked off. "Brewing polyjuice. Realizing there was an effing _basilisk_ in the school when even the teachers couldn't figure it out!"

"Harry–"

"Figuring out that Professor Lupin was a werewolf, and Skeeter an animagus. Tricking Umbridge to follow us into the forest, figuring out how to destroy the Horcruxes– Merlin, Hermione, if it hadn't been for you, we wouldn't have had any idea what we were doing last year!"

"But that's not magic! That's just _me_ Harry, that's not– you don't understand!"

"You're right, I don't understand!" he replied, exasperated. "So tell me!"

"You were born to this, Harry!" Hermione cried, and the words hit him like a kick to the stomach. "You– your family, they were magic, too! And I know, I know you grew up with your aunt, and you didn't understand it at first, but– don't you see? It doesn't matter if you mess up, because you'll never have to prove that this is your world! And I–"

Her voice broke, and she looked down at her arm, to where Harry knew the scars still lay thick and white under her sweater. "…Honestly, Harry, I'm still not sure that I belong here," Hermione nearly whispered, and then bit her lip.

Harry was floored. "Hermione… I didn't know. I'm sorry."

She laughed sadly and shook her head. "No, _I'm_ sorry. It's not like it's your fault."

"I know, but… I dunno, I guess I never realized how much it hurt you. Being treated like a– you know–"

"A mudblood," she said quietly. He nodded. They stood there for a long while, neither looking at each other. Harry wasn't sure what to say. It felt as if a wide chasm had opened between him and one of his best friends, and he didn't know how to cross it, or even whether Hermione would want him to.

Still, he decided in the end, he had to try. "…Well you're not a 'mudblood' to me, Hermione," he said at last, and the girl looked up, surprised. "You're a witch. A bloody _brilliant_ witch who belongs in this world every bit as much as I do. And if anyone else doubts that, well– well, they can go and–"

But what exactly 'they' could go and do, he never got around to saying, for the witch had thrown her arms around him was hugging him tight. "Th-thank you, Harry," she warbled, wiping her eyes as she drew back. "You're- you're a real good friend."

"I try," he joked weakly, and Hermione gave a watery chuckle. "Does Ron know? About all this, I mean…"

"Hm? Oh, yes. It, er, it sort of came up, when we were down in the Chamber…"

Harry nodded. He didn't need to hear any more about it than that.

Together they walked down to the end of the hall in a companionable silence, broken only by Hermione's occasional sniffles. As they rounded the corridor they caught sight of Ron at the far end; catching sight of his teary-eyed girlfriend, the Head Boy hurried forward. Hermione gave him a much longer hug than she had Harry, and Ron glanced up at his friend, surprised. Harry shook his head, indicating it wasn't his place to explain, and Ron gave him an understanding nod.

"Boy, Hermione, I dunno what I did, but you're welcome," the redhead joked as the two parted. Hermione fake-scowled and smacked him on the arm. "Ouch! Okay, too soon… what do you lot say we get some food, eh? I'm starving."

"Sounds good to me," the witch chirped, looking in a considerably better mood. As they headed off towards the great hall, Hermione in the lead, Ron sidled up to Harry.

"Thanks," he said under his breath, so his girlfriend couldn't hear.

Harry grinned and shook his head. "It was nothing. Besides–" He watched the brunette witch walking ahead of them, steps taken with purpose, and added:

"–She's my friend too."

* * *

Halloween morning dawned pale and bright over the frozen hills of Scotland, and Harry was exceedingly pleased to see that the conditions were perfect for a good match. He and Ron dressed quickly and met Hermione and Ginny, the latter of whom was also in her warm sweater and leggings which served as her under-gear. "The rest of the team's already gone down," the redheaded girl informed him, and then added in an undertone, "Harold and his goons didn't look too happy; I think they're still hoping you'll let them play."

"They shouldn't hold their breath," Harry said grimly. "What about the underclassmen?"

"Dunno, didn't see them. I hope they're not too nervous."

This, unfortunately, turned out not to be the case. Ruggles and Stone were picking at their breakfast listlessly; poor Dennis Creevy had gone a pale shade of green and looked too ill to eat anything. It wasn't for lack of encouragement, though; Ron was steadfastly trying to coax the boy into eating with reassurances that he'd felt the same way before his first game. Harry decided it probably wasn't the best idea to remind him of how well that had gone. Harold, Higgs and Hobbes continued to glower at him from the other end of the table.

"Ravenclaw usually plays a fair game," Ginny reminded the underclassmen kindly. "They're good, but they won't pull any tricks– besides, it's just a game–"

"Tell them that," Andrew Stone mumbled, nodding to the rest of the Gryffindors, who were muttering to themselves; no doubt Harry's decision had made its way through the school gossip mills. The captain was just beginning to wonder if the loss of the game wasn't an even greater punishment to his subs than it was to the three ousted players, but before he could change his mind, his watch was chiming time and the whole team rose to their feat and made their way down to the changing rooms.

The day was cold yet sunny when the players sauntered out onto the field, brooms in hand. The crowds were cheering, chanting their names; Harry grinned and nudged Dennis. "See that?" he murmured. "That's for you."

"Yeah?" the boy whispered.

"Yeah." He grinned and added, "Your brother would be proud of you, Dennis." The boy glanced up with a grateful smile.

"Captains, shake hands!" Madame Hooch barked. Harry stepped forward and shook the hand of the Ravenclaw captain, a tall sixth-year by the name of Colwyn Moxley. "Mount your brooms! And…!"

The whistle blew. All fourteen players kicked off as the balls were released and the quaffle tossed high; Harry saw Ron speed off towards the goal posts and then quickly swerved to avoid a bludger. The game was on.

"RAVENCLAW CAPTAIN COLWYN MOXLEY IN POSSESSION AND HEADING TOWARDS THE GOAL. MOXLEY PASSES TO PORIER– PORIER TO ZHOU– ZHOU BACK TO MOXLEY AND–"

The Gryffindor stands roared; Harry spared a moment's glance from scanning the field to see Ron return to the middle goal and Neville sweep up underneath, catching the quaffle before it could hit the ground.

"LONGBOTTOM IN POSSESSION, PASSING OFF NOW TO GINNY WEASLEY– NOW TO CREEVY– NEARING THE GOAL AND– RAVENCLAW KEEPER JANET O'TOOLE BLOCKS! BAD LUCK THERE, CREEVY…"

That was the first indication Harry had that the game was not going to go as planned. For the first fifteen minutes the teams were neck and neck, inching up ten points at a time; twice Harry caught sight of the snitch, but it seemed to be a particularly tricky model and vanished each time within a blink of an eye. The Ravenclaw seeker caught his eye and shrugged; it seemed he, too, was having a hard time of it. Harry spared him a bare grin before returning to do another lap around the field, eyes fixed for the golden ball. Occasionally one side or another would let out a whooping cheer, but both teams were good; neither Ron nor O'Toole seemed willing to let in a single quaffle more than they could help, and so the game dragged on and on…

Harry was startled from the lull by having to dodge a particularly close bludger that went shooting past his ear; he shot a startled look to Andrew Stone, who had gone red and mouthed a very apologetic, _"Sorry!"_ Harry waved his hand to show he was fine, but it seemed that the beater only blushed harder, looking supremely ashamed of himself. On and on the game dragged… thirty minutes now, then forty… even the spectators were growing bored, their cheers less enthusiastic; Harry saw Ron's eyes drift off towards the stands and he gave a little wave to Hermione–

 _CRACK!_

Harry heard the bludger hit the bat a second before he saw it, streaking past his vision like a speeding black bullet. Ron looked back to the pitch just in time for his eyes to widen in surprise before the bludger caught him full in the chest and knocked him clean off his broom into the goalpost.

Harry swore loudly and managed to swoop down just in time to save his friend from falling onto the pitch below; instantly a whistle was blown; three or four other of his teammates flew over to support the redhead as well. Harry was frantic, struggling to keep his friend in his grasp. "Ron! Mate, are you okay?"

But Ron was not okay; indeed, he was not even conscious. A red smear of blood was running down his pale freckled face; it seemed that he'd hit the goalpost with his head and had been knocked clean. The flock of players quickly lowered their fallen teammate to the ground while one of the Ravneclaw chasers hurried off to catch Ron's broom before it could fly away. Andrew Stone was in hysterics, sobbing over and over that he hadn't meant to hit him, he'd hit the bludger wrong…

Madames Pomfrey and Hooch met them on the ground; the crowd was a murmuring buzz in the background like a kicked hornet's nest. "Concussion," the infirmarian asserted easily, drawing her wind, "and a couple of cracked ribs."

"Will he be okay?" Ginny demanded. Harry nodded vigorously beside her.

"It's nothing too serious, but he won't be able to finish the game. School rules."

"You'll have to call in the substitute," Madame Hooch asserted as the healer went to work on the damage; Ron still hadn't woken up.

"Er– a substitute, right." Harry tried to clear his head; he wouldn't be doing Ron any favors by not staying focused. "Anyone know where Montez is?"

"I'm afraid that Miss Montez is already in the hospital wing," Madame Pomfrey asserted, glancing up. "She had a rather bad allergic reaction to a potions accident yesterday."

Harry cursed under his breath; there was no way they could play without a keeper, but rules were rules; the game had to be played until someone caught the snitch. "Anyone here ever played keeper before?"

Ryan Ruggles raised his hand tentatively. "I mean, back home I did, with the boys from the village," he volunteered, blushing. "Nothing serious like this, though…"

"It's good enough. Higgs!" He nodded to the beater, who beamed back. "You're in."

"Alright then," Madame Hooch declared as the healer conjured up a stretcher and carried Ron away, "Everyone back in the air on my count. One– two–"

It soon became clear, however, that Ryan Ruggles' skills as a keeper were nowhere near 'good enough.' In the space of five minutes, Ravenclaw scored three goals, putting them up now by forty points. Harry circled the field, ears tuned to the announcer, who continuously called out goal after goal for Ravenclaw: "MOXLEY SPEEDS TOWARDS THE GOAL– RUGGLES DIVES AND– SCORE! RAVENCLAW NINETY-FORTY… ONE-TEN TO FORTY… ONE-THIRTY TO FIFTY…" Ginny and the rest couldn't keep up. Harry began to seek out the snitch desperately; it was the only way to win the game. "ONE-SIXTY TO FIFTY… ONE-SEVENTY… ONE-EIGHTY…"

There! A flash of gold drew his eye; he looked to the side. The snitch was hovering about a hundred yards to his right. He turned and shot off; in an instant the Ravenclaw was racing towards him from the opposite end of the pitch, the snitch twitching back and forth between them– fifty yards– twenty– Harry stretched his hand forward, cheeks stinging with the rush of the wind as he barreled towards the other player, it was a game of chicken, who would veer off first–

He threw all of his reckless Gryffindor courage and charged forward. Wit met mad bravery and the two passed each other by a hair's bredth as the other seeker veered. Their hands fumbled together for a moment, each struggling to come out with the snitch in hand, and then they were past, and Harry felt the tiny wings fluttering against the sides of his fist.

Madame Hooch blew the whistle as the crowds jumped to their feet, roaring, but Harry knew the game wasn't yet decided. Heart hammering in his throat, he turned the snitch over. There, written in gold cursive, was the name:

 _Harry Potter_

With a sigh of relief, he turned the other seeker, who was looking at him expectantly, and held it up with an almost apologetic shrug. The Ravneclaw nodded and together they swooped towards the ground. "Snitch," Madame Hooch said clearly, and he handed it over. The referee examined the snitch and then nodded, handing it back to the Gryffindor. The crowds broke into fresh cheers, streaming onto the field, but Harry had no time for glory; with Ginny at his side, he hurried off the pitch.

The hospital wing was largely empty by the time they arrived, save for a glum-looking Carla Montez and, behind a sheet at the end, two shadow figures whom Harry presumed to be Ron and Hermione. He and Ginny rushed forward to find the witch sitting in a chair beside the hospital bed holding the redhead's hand, who seemed to be staring rather dreamily off at the ceiling.

"Oh!" Hermione whispered, looking up. "Is the game over then? How did it go?"

"We won," Ginny replied. "Barely. How's Ron?"

"He's alright– bit out of it, I think, but that'd be the pain potion…"

"Heya, Harry," said Ron brightly, turning to look at him with a goofy smile.

"Er– hey, Ron."

"And Ginny." The concussed wizard giggled. "Li'l Ginny… Haha, remember when you used to be taller than me? And now you're little, hahaha…"

"Thanks, Ron," said Ginny drily.

"Liiii'l Ginny," Ron wheezed, looking up at the ceiling. Harry was struggling not to dissolve into fits of laughter. "Itty-bitty-little Ginny… haha, remember that time I hid all your dolls? You were so mad…"

"You know I'm a big girl now," his sister said, rolling her eyes. "Engaged and everything."

"Engaged?" Ron looked over at her with unsteady eyes. "To who?"

Harry snorted and raised a finger. Ron frowned, trying to focus, and then shook his head. "Mm-mm. Nope. I won't let you."

"Is that so?" Ginny said, raising an eyebrow.

"I _wont,"_ he insisted. "You're too little, Ginny." He began to struggle to get out of bed, turning to Harry. "I'll fight you," he warned his best friend, who blinked. "You wanna fight me?"

"Uh–"

"I'm sure Harry doesn't want to fight you, Ron," Hermione intervened firmly, pushing him back towards the bed. "Now how's about you lay back down–"

"But you heard him! He's gonna marry my sister!" Ron declared loudly.

Harry was just about to make a quick exit, worried for his friend's health, when Madame Pomfrey came over. "What's all this racket?" she demanded.

"He's gonna marry my sister!" Ron repeated, pointing to Harry with a scowl. Madame Pomfrey immediately realized what was going on and took charge of the situation.

"I'm sure you can sort it all out in a few hours, dear; they won't be getting married _that_ quickly. Now how's about you just… lie… down…" Harry could see her carefully waving her wand in her other hand, and Ron's eyes began to drift closed as the sleeping charm took effect. He appeared to struggle for a few minutes, and then relaxed back into the bed and closed his eyes. Within a few seconds, he was snoring.

"Well, that was eventful," Ginny said with a snort. "Harry?"

But Harry didn't answer. The exhileration of winning the match had given away to a sick, heavy feeling as Ron's words swirled in his heard. Certainly, he was on some pretty strong medications at the moment– but was that how Ron really felt? He hadn't been very approving of the idea of their engagement so far… and, Harry had to wonder, what if he was right? What if this was moving too fast? He'd only been technically dating Ginny for a few months, after all…

He was saved from having to answer these questions by a sudden voice at his back: "How is he?" The pair turned to see Professor Lupin looking back with worry.

"He'll be okay," Madame Pomfrey reassured him. "I think he just needs some sleep for the regrowth potions to catch up…"

"Well, he's in good hands." The healer gave him a grateful look, and Remus smiled back before turning to the bespectacled wizard in front of him. "Harry, just the man I was looking for. If I might have a word with you in private?"

"Oh– er, alright."

Harry followed him out of the infirmary into the hallway. "I'm not in trouble, am I?" he asked nervously.

"No, no– nothing like that. Actually quite the opposite." Lupin hesitated, much to the teenager's surprise, and then said with an air of distinct discomfort, "Harry, I, er, I'm going to visit Godric's Hollow later tonight, and… well, I was wondering if you'd like to come with me?"

"Tonight?" Harry said, surprised. "Why?"

Lupin stared at him with an expression of mixed shock and sorrow. "Harry… don't you know what day it is?"

"Halloween?" he replied, baffled. Lupin merely stared, mouth slightly open as if he wanted to speak but didn't know how. Harry realized there were tears in his eyes.

When it hit him, he dropped his wand.

"Oh, Harry," Lupin said thickly, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your day- I just thought-"

"You thought I, of all people, would remember," Harry said numbly. Lupin nodded.

"Are you okay?"

"I…" _Was_ he okay? Harry didn't know. He felt as if he _should_ feel something– sorrow, perhaps, or anger– but there was nothing. Just a numb sensation of emptiness. "…I'm alright," he settled on eventually. "And, er, I'd like to go. To Godric's Hollow, I mean."

He thought he saw a glimpse of fear flash through the professor's hazel eyes, but it was gone in the next moment, replaced by what seemed to be a sad and slightly forced smile. "Well… good. Does nine-o-clock sound alright?"

"Sure. Nine-o-clock."

"Good."

"Yeah."

Teacher and student stared at each other for another moment, before Remus cleared his throat. "Well. I suppose I'd better be on my way."

"Oh. Oh, right. Well, er, have a good day."

"Yes, thank you. And you."

Lupin turned, almost mechanically, and walked off down the hall. Harry watched him go, and then picked up his wand. As he returned to the infirmary, talking with Hermione, laughing with Ginny, it seemed to him that it was all happening on a strange autopilot, which he watched as a spectator rather than an operator. In the back of his mind a continuous phrase repeated: _seventeen years. Seventeen years._

Seventeen years since Lily and James had died. And for the first time in all those years, Harry realized that Halloween would never be the same again.

* * *

It was already dark by the time Harry met Lupin outside the school gates, fastening his black woolen cloak tightly around his shoulders against the winter chill. The professor was waiting patiently, blowing on his hands and rubbing them together to stave off the cold. "Ah, Harry," he said, glancing over as the teenager approached. "Ready, then?"

"Er- yeah, I suppose." But even he could hear how nervous his voice sounded.

Lupin smiled a little sadly. "Sorry. Perhaps 'ready' isn't the right word, hm?" Harry shrugged, and the teacher held out his arm. "Shall we?"

For a moment, the younger man considered backing out. It had been one thing, visiting with Hermione, a friend, and perhaps better still an ignorant friend, one whose presence would not increase the sense of loss. But then he met the professor's eyes and realized that he wasn't the only one for whom this would be difficult. If Remus was willing to share this with him, well, how could he refuse?

Hesitantly, and then with decision, the bespectacled wizard took the professor's arm, and the pair vanished into the night.

Five hundred miles to the south, two men appeared with a sharp _crack_ in what appeared to be a small, walled garden behind a dark cottage. Harry looked around, startled; he'd been expecting to apparate onto one of the streets. "Is this Godric's Hollow?"

"Yes– one of the apparation points, the walls are all covered with silencing charms. This way." Lupin led him out a swinging gate into a cramped alley between two identical-looking cottages, which led to a small side-street. This in turn curved around until reaching the main road. The last of these was ablaze with lights; children darted to and fro, talking and laughing, dressed in an array of costumes and knocking on doors. Shouts of "trick-or-treat!" filled the street, and the pair had to step aside quickly to avoid a small gaggle of children as they dashed past. Harry distinctly caught sight of a sheet-dressed "ghost," two witches, a pirate, and, ironically enough, a werewolf. He glanced over as Lupin chuckled. "Halloween," the professor said fondly, shaking his head. "I'm always certain I'm going to hate it, and then as soon as I get here I quite forget how."

Harry nodded, a little in awe; the Dursleys had vehemently forbidden any such nonsense as dressing up in costumes, not even for Halloween. Aunt Petunia had always disappeared over the holiday, and more often than not the cousins had been left alone for the day with Uncle Vernon, who was in even worse a mood then than usual. "The church is down this way," Lupin said, breaking him from his thoughts, and Harry again followed without a word.

The church was still open when they arrived; Harry made to turn for the graveyard, but Lupin caught his shoulder. "We'll have to get Revd. Swain to open it first," the werewolf explained. "He always locks the gate on Halloween."

"Why?"

"Oh, numerous reasons. There was always the threat of Death Eaters, going to desecrate the grave; and of course, graveyards somehow always seems to attract vandals on Halloween."

"What if he doesn't open it for us?" Harry inquired, worried, but Remus only chuckled.

"Revd. Swain's known me for ages; besides, you're the spitting image of James, he's bound to recognize you. No, he'll open the gate for us, you needn't worry about that…"

The two slipped inside the church and shut the door quietly behind him. As Remus went off to find the vicar, Harry took the opportunity to look around. He hadn't often been in a church, though from what little he knew he had the vague feeling that it was Anglican rather than Reformed; the decor was beautiful yet simple, with an arching stone roof and wooden pews. Near the door was a carved stone baptismal font, and at the far end behind the altar were stained glass windows, too dark by the night to discern their images at a distance. Interested, he was just about to cross the nave to get a better look when he heard a voice softly, "Bless my soul. You were right, Remus; he does look remarkably like James."

Startled, Harry turned. The professor and a man who was undoubtedly the Revd. Swain were standing in the doorway. The latter appeared to be about sixty years old, with white hair and crinkled lines around his eyes, and wore a vicar's cassock. "Er, hullo," said Harry, a bit awkwardly. "I was just, um–"

"Oh, no need to explain," the main said faintly, still looking at the wizard as if he were a vision; Harry couldn't help but feel uncomfortable. "My word, how long it has been…"

"I'm sorry, have we met?" the young man demanded, trying not to be rude but far too unsettled to be polite.

Much to his surprise, the vicar laughed. "Met! My dear boy, I was the one who christened you– right there, in that very font. Oh yes, I remember you particularly, and not just because of that scar on your forehead." He nodded to the aforementioned mark. "No, you must have been the most disgruntled child I ever had the good fortune to baptize; cried straight through the ceremony from start to finish, didn't he, Remus?"

"That he did. I was nearly deaf by the end of it. Here, Harry; see for yourself." The professor reached into his pocket and pulled out what at first appeared to be a small gold box; upon undoing the latches, however, the object revealed itself to be a triptych frame, holding three small pictures. Harry took it and looked them over; in the middle, of course, was Tonks, holding Teddy and laughing at the photographer. To the right was a still muggle photograph of whom he assumed to be Remus's parents, and to the left… Harry caught his breath. A smiling Lily Potter was holding a fussing, red-faced baby in her arms, both of them dressed in white. On either side of her beamed James Potter, looking as if he couldn't possibly be happier, and a very young Sirius Black. Harry felt his throat tighten, looking down at the happy quartet.

Lupin and the vicar were still speaking. "I imagine you'll be wanting to see the grave?" Revd. Swain inquired.

"We would, yes. Have you had any other visitors?"

"A few this morning, but you know I try to keep the crowds out… the sister came, of course, and the headmistress…"

"Yes, McGonagall mentioned she would stop by. Harry?" He looked up; Remus was nodding towards the door to which it seemed he and the vicar were heading. The young man quickly closed the triptych and hurried after.

The lane in front of the church was mostly empty, save for a small family with two little girls dressed up as fairies. The reverend waited at the kissing gate until they had passed, and then pressed his hand to a small cross atop the iron door. The cross glowed blue for a moment, and then there came the sound of a lock clicking and a shimmer in the air as the gate door swung open. "There you are," Revd. Swain said kindly. "And mind you shut the gate when you leave, Remus; if it's left open overnight I'll have to get Maggie to recast the wards."

"Naturally. Have a good evening, Reverend."

The vicar inclined his head and then shuffled off towards the front door. Harry gave Lupin a curious look as they stepped through the gate. "Maggie?"

"Revd. Swain's wife. He's a muggle, you see; can't do any magic himself, although his wife wards the gate to open only for him. Your parents are this way…"

But Harry didn't need to be told. Taking the lead, he walked with almost nervous hastiness to the new line of graves, several rows in, and then stopped. He could see the marble headstone from where he stood, but not the words. Suddenly he felt very afraid. Why had he come here again, Harry wondered? What masochistic desire had prompted him to visit such a painful place?

The feeling of warmth and pressure settled onto his right shoulder, and he looked over, surprised. Lupin looked back with a pained smile. Harry took a deep breath and, with a nod, the two walked forward towards the final resting place of Lily and James Potter.

Unlike last Christmas, the grave was not bare; wreaths and bouquets littered the ground in dazzling colors, as if the givers had been doing their best to outshine one another in beauty. At the very forefront of it all, almost forgotten for the variety of gorgeous blooms, was a small vase filled with flowers of mismatching heights. Upon closer inspection, Harry realized that they were lilies and petunias, mixed together with little care to propriety. Lupin himself knelt down and placed two very humble yellow roses before the headstone, and Harry had the feeling that his parents would have liked these simple gifts better than any of the magical flowers the others had laid. Together the pair stepped back and fell silent, each lost in his own thoughts.

Harry stared at the headstone, reading it over and over. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was surprised that he wasn't crying, or even really grieving; everything inside him felt numb and tired, and a bit afraid, not wanting to break through the cold shell that had frozen through him. He knew instinctively that there would be pain beneath, and the young man was so desperate to avoid it that he almost felt ashamed to be called a Gryffindor. His eyes fell upon the inscription upon the headstone.

"…You put that there," he realized slowly, looking over at Lupin. _"'The last enemy to be destroyed is death.'_ You chose that, didn't you?" Lupin nodded. "Why?"

"It was James's favorite verse," the werewolf answered candidly. "And I thought it was fitting."

"Verse?"

The professor nodded. "From the book of Corinthians. He used to say it made him feel as if he could breathe again… as if he knew that, in the end, the world and the war wasn't resting on his shoulders." When the other man didn't speak, the werewolf glanced over. The young wizard's mouth had gone tight, and Lupin frowned. "Harry, are you alright?"

Harry was not alright. Through the haze of detachment an anger was burning, a blazing hatred that he had never felt for the man before. "You shouldn't have put that there," he said quietly, but his chest felt tight. His mind was filled with images of books and little churches, of his parents and godfather beaming out from a photograph and a fussing baby in a white christening gown in his mother's arms. "You shouldn't have- shouldn't have–"

"Harry?" Lupin said, confused and now a little alarmed.

The young wizard could feel his hands shaking. He wanted to strike Lupin, to hit him across the face and then kick over the headstone, scourge the words from the marble with fire. "It's a lie, isn't it?" he demanded, voice as biting as the autumn chill. "You- you can't just do that, you can't just put _lies_ on people's graves like that–"

"Harry, I don't underst–"

"They're dead, Remus!" he spat angrily, whirling to face the man; the werewolf blinked and stepped back in shock. "They're dead, and they're never coming back! And you- _you–"_

Lupin was aghast. "Harry, you of all people surely should know that- that death isn't the end!"

"And how would I know that?!" he demanded, voice rising, pitched with anger. "Whoever taught me that, huh?!" He didn't know what he was trying to say or even why it mattered; all he knew was that there was something so horribly _unfair,_ that these words had been a part of his parents' world, and yet they were not a part of his. "I didn't know– no one ever said–!"

"But surely, after what you saw–"

 _"I DON'T KNOW WHAT I SAW!"_ Harry bellowed, finally losing control. Lupin stumbled back. "I DON'T KNOW! AND I COULDN'T KNOW, BECAUSE NO ONE EVER TOLD ME! _YOU NEVER TOLD ME!"_

His voice rang off the headstones, and then deafening silence fell over the graveyard. Remus stared at him, speechless, and Harry felt his anger shatter into the strange and hollow pain he had been repressing and ignoring for so long that his voice shook when he finally spoke it aloud. "…W-why didn't you ever come for me?" he choked, and then fell silent, waiting. Waiting for the explanation he knew would never be enough.

Remus's face seemed frozen, his expression both stunned and saddened. "…I-I wanted to, Harry, really, I did," he nearly whispered. "But you have to understand, I had nothing to offer you. Your parents' accounts had been frozen to all but blood family and there was no way the Ministry was about to let me interfere with that; I could barely keep a job; I didn't have the money to raise a child, and… and then there was the full moon to think about." His voice was pleading, begging the young wizard, his brother's son, to understand. "I knew that your aunt didn't approve of magic, but I honestly thought you would be better off with family than with an impoverished and dangerous social pariah."

"You never even came to visit," said Harry bitterly. "No one ever did…"

"I wasn't allowed to. It was one of the conditions they made to taking you in: they- and, by extension, you- were to have no more contact with our world than strictly necessary. Albus told me it was for the best… I trusted his judgment. By the time you were three, I'd already left for the States." His eyes were very sad. "With every year that went by, I grew more and more ashamed that I had never sought you out, despite what I thought were quite legitimate reasons for not doing so. When eventually I met you and realized you didn't remember me at all, I found I couldn't bear to have you think I'd abandoned you. I pretended to be a stranger." Lupin's voice broke. "Please, Harry… try to understand… try to forgive me…"

There was a long silence as the younger wizard tried to integrate all of this. He looked across the distance separating them and saw the grief etched into the professor's face, the tears in his eyes. Unable to bear his own guilt, Harry looked back to the grave, still and cold among its mass of flowers. Lily and James's names looked back, harsh and inescapable, like the letters of a law that could not be broken. _Gone._ They were gone, these strangers who had once been his parents, and there was nothing– _nothing–_ that could ever bring them back.

He didn't even realize he'd crumpled until he was on his hands and knees, weeping, sobbing harder than he ever had in his life. Everything, seventeen years of loss, neglect, fear and isolation seemed to be pouring out of him at once, more pain than he'd ever realized he'd been carrying within for so long, so long…

A shadow shifted in the corner of his vision; a hesitant hand again rested on his shoulder, and instinctively, Harry turned and buried his face in Remus's cloak.

How long they knelt there– the younger wizard wracked with the force of his grief, the elder crying silently, each gripping the other tightly as if terrified that they, too, would join the dead under the frozen earth– how long it was, neither really knew, but after some time Harry pulled away, wiping his eyes. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, red-eyed. "I'm sorry, about what I said… I didn't mean to…"

"It's alright," Remus reassured him; his voice, too, was hoarse. "It's fine." Harry nodded one too many times, and Lupin stood, offering his hand. The young man accepted it and allowed the professor to pull him to his feet. Neither could quite meet the other's eyes for a moment, but when they did, both found themselves chuckling sadly, rubbing at their eyes, equally embarrassed. "Why don't we go sit down?" Remus suggested, gesturing in Harry's direction. "There's a bench over that way…"

"Yeah… yeah, that'd be alright."

Together they retreated to the aforementioned bench, which was made of white cement and no warmer than the ground. Remus drew his wand and murmured several heating charms which drove away some of the chill, and they sat down, leaning forward in unison with their elbows on their knees, hands folded. For a while they were again silent; it seemed that Remus was waiting for Harry to speak.

At last, the latter drew a deep breath. "Can you tell me about them?" Harry asked, not meeting the professor's eyes. His gaze was still focused on the marble headstone not far off.

"What would you like to know?"

The younger wizard shrugged. After a moment, he brought up the question he had been struggling with for nearly three years: "Why did my mum marry him? I know he was your friend, but… honestly, Professor, he sort of seemed like a jerk," Harry admitted, looking over.

Lupin sighed. "I'm afraid, then, that I haven't done James justice, if that's your impression of him… Harry, you have to realize that what you saw of your father was solely from Snape's perspective. I'm not saying that what James did was okay," he added quickly, as Harry opened his mouth, "but that view of your parents– well, it was a bit skewed, to say the least. Severus saw your mother to be an angel among men, and your father a devil, neither of which was true. And I'll have you know that Severus Snape was hardly a passive victim of our pranks; more often than not he got us back at least as good, and sometimes worse, than we got him. That, unfortunately, was how things escalated to such a point as the events you witnessed in the penseive."

"Oh." Harry paused a moment, taking it all in. "So how were they really, then?"

Remus smiled slightly and shook his head. "They were… people, Harry. Human beings, just like you and me, with their faults and their gifts… your mother, she was one of the most stubborn creatures I have ever met. She could hold a grudge until the sun burnt out, if you didn't apologize– though to be fair, she nearly always forgave you if you did. And oh, she was a spitfire; you could rile her up with just a word. James used to get a real kick out of that, before he realized he was actually madly in love with her…" Harry laughed despite himself. "But she was also one of the kindest people I have ever known. She found me out in our first year, and she never treated me any differently, never told a soul… she was always there for me when I felt I could count on no one else."

Lupin fell quiet, eyes distant, and Harry had to speak up to bring him back to the present. "And my dad?"

"Ah. Well, I'd be lying if I said James couldn't be a conceited arse when he wanted to be. He was his parents' only child, you see, and I think they spoiled him a bit more than was good for him… but he was also one of the best friends I ever had. He really, truly did believe in being _good;_ the guilt he felt when he truly realized what he'd been doing to Severus all those years… if you take comfort from nothing else, believe me when I say that James truly regretted how he'd treated Snape, with all his heart."

"Did he?" said Harry, surprised. He'd never have guessed it from what he'd seen in the penseive, but then, maybe he'd been too quick to judge his father, after all.

"Mm. He was a great man. Generous, upright, unfailingly loyal… he refused to take sides between Sirius and I, you know; if it hadn't been for him, we never would have become friends again."

"You and Sirius had a row?" said Harry, surprised.

Remus gave him an odd look, and then said, in a tone of dawning realization, "Of course… we never really explained that, did we?" At Harry's baffled look, the werewolf heaved a heavy sigh. "Harry, do you remember what was the most infuriating thing James ever did to Severus?"

"He saved his life," Harry answered promptly, a bit confused, and then it all dawned on him. "Oh, _Merlin."_ Remus nodded grimly. "He… he saved his life… from _you…"_

"Yes. And Severus was, at least at the time, convinced that both James and I had been in on it all along."

Harry's head was reeling. "Sirius– he tried to _murder_ Snape–!"

"Not exactly," Remus said hastily.

"Not exactly! He sent him down a tunnel with a _werewolf_ at the end!" Suddenly realizing what he'd said, Harry flushed bright red. "That is- I mean–"

But Remus waved his hand dismissively. "Trust me, Harry, I understand. In fact, I was more furious with Sirius than anyone." At the boy's continued look of mixed shock and disappointment, the professor cleared his throat. "But I'm getting the story all out of order– I'll have to start at the beginning, if you want to understand…

He paused, organizing his thoughts, and then began. "The evening after the incident you saw in Snape's pensieve, I went off on James like I had never dared to before. I'll admit that I'm a coward, Harry; goodness alone knows how I ended up in Gryffindor, but when I realized just how much humiliation they'd caused him that day, the humiliation I'd failed to prevent…" Remus shook his head. "By the time I was finished, James felt so ashamed of himself that the next day he went up to Severus in the middle of lunch, apologized to him in front of everyone. Said he'd gone too far. Of course, Snape– and, to be fair, just about everyone else– took it as a setup to another prank. He lost his temper hexed James outright, but your father didn't retaliate. Lily was there to see all of it… and then she saw the trick Severus played on James the next week."

"The trick?"

Lupin bit his lip. "Harry, you have to understand that at this point, Severus was… he was absolutely beyond thinking clearly. We never realized until later that he blamed us for his loss that day of the thing he loved the most in the world… your mother. So he played a very, well, a very cruel prank on James in revenge… unfortunately it backfired, incensing Lily even more."

"What did he-?"

"Suffice it to say that it was very unkind, perhaps even more so than Severus realized at the time. And then there was the Whomping Willow incident shortly after…"

"But how did that even happen?" Harry pressed. "What, did Sirius just wake up one day and decided he was going to off Snape?"

"No, no, not at all," Remus reassured him. "In fact, looking back, the whole thing was really a series of mistakes and misunderstandings– not to mention a lot of ill judgment on both Sirius and Snape's parts. That's why Sirius wasn't expelled, you see; Snape had just as much responsibility in what happened, not that he'd ever admit it."

"You mean– he _knew_ you were a–"

"He had his suspicions, yes."

Harry was incredulous. "Then why in the world did he go down there?!"

"Well, er…" Lupin was turning red. "The thing is, Harry, Lily certainly wasn't in love with your father at this point, but neither did she have feelings for Snape. She was interested in, er, someone else, and that really sent Severus off the edge…"

"What does that have to do with it?" Lupin didn't answer, and Harry's eyes went wide. _"You?"_

The professor sighed. "Harry-"

"You- and my _mum-"_

 _"No,"_ he said quickly. "It never went past a first date, Harry, I promise you that."

"Wait- first date- then- were _you_ interested in _her_ too?"

"I- that's not-"

"Were you?"

"Well of course I was!" the professor snapped, exasperated. "Half our class was in love with Lily Evans, it was impossible not to be! And we were good friends, it was only natural!"

Harry was staring at him, wide-eyed, as if he'd never really seen the professor before. Lupin grimaced. "Harry, I didn't tell you because it never _went_ anywhere. I took her out, we decided we weren't right for each other and that was the end of it! A brief teenage romance, that was all it ever was."

"Oh…" He trailed off, still trying to integrate this new information. "And the Whomping Willow?"

"Ah," the professor agreed, relieved to be back to a more comfortable subject. "Well, Snape was aware of your mother's, er, interest, and he'd been trying to convince her for over a year of the possibility of my being a werewolf. Lily continued to dismiss him, leading him to believe I'd lied to her; he didn't realize she already knew and was trying to protect my secret. He thought if he could show her proof, she'd see how rotten I was and come running back to him."

"But that's crazy!"

"People in love often do crazy things," the professor pointed out sagely. "Either way, he and Sirius got in a fight the day before the full moon, and Snape taunted him that he was going to find proof about me and show it to the whole school."

"So what, Sirius just _told_ him how to get to you?"

"Not exactly," he repeated. "Harry, I'll be the first to admit that Sirius did not act in good judgment, but at the same time, his reaction was understandable. Snape had hurt James, badly. He'd already picked on Peter more times than we could count. When he went after me, so close to the full moon… Sirius had had enough. He lost his temper and essentially told Snape to go down to the Willow if he were ever feeling stupid enough to take on a werewolf alone; he never believed Snape would take up the challenge. So, Snape followed Madame Pomfrey and I down to the tree, saw her prod the knoll on the roots and repeated the same trick to get inside."

"So Snape just went in there _alone?"_ Harry demanded, aghast. "What, did he think he could just- just snap a picture and walk back out?" Lupin shrugged, and the young man exclaimed, "That's idiotic!"

The professor snorted. "He was an angry fifteen-year-old boy, Harry, idiocy is to be expected in such cases. Besides, I think he had the notion that I was locked up in some sort of cage… Anyhow, both Severus and Sirius were punished, while James was rewarded; this incensed Severus, who felt sure that James had been in on the plan."

"And you?"

"Well, I never managed to fully convince Severus that I hadn't intended any of it to happen, not until much later, anyway, but he was reluctant to out me– for Lily's sake, I think, more than anything. And, er…" Remus had flushed again, fiddling with the hem of his cloak. "I may have reacted a little… strongly… against Sirius, so that probably had something to do with Snape's willingness to give me the benefit of the doubt. In short, everyone in that situation was incredibly fortunate; things could have gone very differently. And in the end, it was thanks to James that Sirius and I ever reconciled… he refused to take sides between us. At the time I was furious with him for it; now, looking back, I'm incredibly grateful. I held on to a lot of bitterness back then– still am, in some ways, if I'm being honest– and James…" Lupin smiled sadly and shook his head. "James taught me how to forgive."

He faded off, and slowly yet surely, like mist coming in off the sea, sorrow swept into the companionable atmosphere. Neither spoke again for a long time. Remus pulled his cloak closer around himself, lost in thought, and silence reigned over the frozen graveyard.

In the end, it was Harry again who broke it. "…If there was someone who could have stopped this," he said lowly, "if there was a… why wouldn't have they?"

Remus sighed, long and low. "You wouldn't believe how many times I've asked myself that, Harry," he said quietly. "And I can give you a perfectly logical answer, but I can promise you, it won't kill the pain."

"Can't make it any worse, can it?" the boy said hollowly.

The werewolf offered a joyless smile. "No, I suppose it can't." He leaned back on the bench and blew on his hands, warming them. "…The answer, Harry, is a particularly unsatisfying one: it's for our own good."

Harry looked over at him incredulously. "How could this be for anyone's good?!"

"What do you mean by 'this?'" Remus countered calmly. "Do you mean the ability to do evil, or the effects of it?"

"I don't know. Either? Is there a difference?"

"Yes, and a very important one. Harry, everything that we are, the very essence of what it means to be human, to be sentient– all of it depends on our free will. Without it, we're nothing more than animals. It can be impaired, certainly, but that natural ability, that inborn capacity to do good or evil… it's what makes us who we are."

"So what, we're just– just allowed to do whatever we want? To hurt people? _Kill_ people?"

"Merlin, Harry, what would you have the heavens do!" Remus exclaimed, gesturing to the starry sky. "Swoop down and take over our minds, animate us like charmed dolls? What kind of a life is that? No; to have the choice to good, we must be capable of doing evil; to be able to love we must have the option to hate."

"Well if this is what free will leads to, then I don't know that I want it," Harry said bitterly.

Remus didn't reply right away, and concerned, the boy looked up. The werewolf was looking at him with hard, burning gold eyes. "You don't mean that," he said, voice quiet yet deadly certain. Harry realized what he'd said and swallowed.

"And as for suffering," Remus continued, still quiet, yet with a tone of authority which Harry could not find it in himself to contradict, "I don't think you really want to live in a world without that either, Harry. You've seen what happens to a soul who commits grave evils; do you think that the damage is any less if their wickedness doesn't succeed? Do you think Voldemort's soul would not have been split if somehow the murder of your beautiful parents had been prevented? I tell you that it would have nevertheless. Suffering is what forces us to acknowledge the evil we do to others, the evil we do to ourselves.

"Imagine that world, Harry. Imagine a life with evil but not death, a life where we could do whatever we wanted to others and no one ever got hurt. We would be forever slipping into an abyss, isolating ourselves from one another, trapped in an unending cycle of selfishness where all that mattered to us was our own pleasure." His blazing gold eyes held the reflection of some great evil that made the boy shiver. "I have been there, Harry, I have seen people in such a condition, for whom the pain of others is of no consequence. It is a living hell. And I can reassure you that I would rather pay the price, a thousand times over, of living in this world with its suffering, than living there without it."

Harry held his gaze for a moment, and then looked away, his face a little pale. Remus felt bad for scaring him, but he didn't know how to apologize for his intensity. Years of pain, of confusion, of screaming at God and whoever else would listen, had eventually yielded into a quiet resignation, but Harry was still young and, in some ways, still foolish. He had never experienced what it was to have his freedom, his very rationality, ripped from his grasp. He had never fought the black temptations of the night, praying for the dawn, forcing bloody images of mutilation into his own mind to prevent a loss of control. He had never known these things, and Remus was grateful. But he wanted– _needed–_ the boy to understand what meaning life could still have, for those to whom the world could afford no hope– for the poor, the sick, the unwanted, the unloved.

"And I have to believe, Harry," Remus said gently, causing the boy to look up in surprise, "I _have_ to believe that somehow, good can come out of suffering. What Fenrir Greyback did to me, all those years ago, was… was horrible. But I know I would be a very different man, and I daresay a very unkind man, were it not for that suffering… The trials we undergo help to make us who we are, and to give us compassion for our weak and fallen companions. Does that make any sense?"

After a pause, Harry nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, sort of… I'm still not sure what to think about, er, _all this,_ though." He gestured to the graveyard in general, but Remus got the idea.

"And I wouldn't expect you to be," the teacher reassured him. "You have the rest of your life to figure it out, Harry; I just wanted you to understand that… that evil and suffering are no reason not to have hope for a life beyond this one… in fact, I'd say they're a good incentive for it."

The student nodded again, less certainly this time, clearly lost in deep thought. Remus gave him a minute or so, and then slapped his knees and stood. "Well, that's enough food for thought for now, don't you think?"

Harry agreed, and together they walked back along the rows of graves. He caught sight of other Potter graves– his ancestors, perhaps, or distant relatives; he didn't look close enough to see– and, in the far distance, the crypt which bore the name of Ignotus Perevell. At last, they came to stand before Lily and James's headstone again, and both stood silent. Just looking.

"Is there anything you'd like to say to them?" Remus asked kindly, glancing over. "You don't have to, but you can if you like."

Harry didn't speak right away; he wasn't sure what to say. He had only ever spoken to his parents twice before, and this… somehow, it felt different. Realer, more… concrete. At last, he opened his mouth.

"I-I miss you guys," he stammered. "I mean, I miss you a lot. And I…I wish I could have gotten to know you." He wiped his eyes; Remus tactfully pretended not to notice. "But… But I think things are going to be okay now. I stopped him, mum, dad. He'll never hurt anyone ever again." The young man swallowed harshly, and then choked out, "I know that won't bring you back. But maybe now, some other kid will get to know his parents. So… so I love you guys. And I hope you're proud of me." Harry fell silent. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

But apparently that was enough, because Remus set a hand on his shoulder and said quietly, "They are, Harry. I promise you that."

The young man nodded thickly. He couldn't speak. Remus squeezed his shoulder, and then together they turned and left the grave, leaving the final rest of Lily and James Potter behind them.

* * *

Although the crowds of trick-or-treaters had thinned since their arrival in Godric's Hollow, there were still a few small groups, children dashing past and laughing as they ran from one house to another, bulging pillowcases in hand. The quintet that Harry had seen earlier in the night– the ghost, twin witches, pirate and werewolf– darted past them once again, the last nearly knocking into Harry as he chased after the others. The girls squealed with laughter, and the boy let out a roar more appropriate to a lion than a wolf. Harry was surprised to hear that Remus was chuckling. "Doesn't it bother you?" he asked in a low voice, careful not to attract the attention of the muggles.

Remus shrugged, still smiling in an almost wistful way. "It's innocent, Harry. For them, such things are fantasy and fiction; for them, all monsters vanish with the daylight. That innocence… I'm glad it was protected, protected so well that they can make jokes about it and play pretend."

"Yeah… I guess I can understand that."

Remus smiled at him, and together they walked in companionable silence for a few moments before the professor said, "By the way, I nearly forgot to mention: you, young man, have not turned in your application for a thesis project."

Harry stopped short, a look of utter shock on his face. "Oh Merlin, I totally forget! Professor–" But then he saw that Lupin was laughing.

"Sometimes, Harry, I swear, you are James reincarnated," the teacher chuckled, looking far more amused than Harry thought was due. "He used to react like that every time I told him we'd had transfiguration homework." The professor winked and added, "Sometimes I told him even when we hadn't, just for kicks." Harry laughed; the image of his father running frantic with worry while Remus snickered in the background was too much to bear. "Well now," Lupin said, stifling himself a bit, "Did you happen to have any ideas?"

"Er– well, the one thing I really wanted to do was to learn occlumency, properly this time," Harry admitted. "But I don't know anyone who could teach me, so…"

"That's not entirely true," Remus countered mildly. "I could teach you, or at any rate, I could try."

"You're an occlumens?" Harry said, startled.

"Certainly. My father taught me when I was very young, as a precaution to keep my secret safe. He himself was an expert in the field."

"Why didn't you train me then?" Harry questioned, trying not to sound bitter. "Why have Snape do it?"

Lupin shook his head. "If I could have, Harry, believe me, I would have. Unfortunately, it's very difficult, nigh on impossible, to learn occlumency without practicing against an actual legilimens, of which I am not. As you can imagine, considering Voldemort's skill in the subject, we didn't think it prudent to waste time."

"Oh." Harry looked a bit deflated. "So you won't be able to teach me, then, since you're not a legilimens?"

"Well, it would be very difficult," Lupin conceded, "although if you're dedicated enough, you may be able to master it through theory alone… nevertheless, I'll try to find a legilimens who can help you learn. There aren't many left after the war, I'm afraid, but perhaps I can pull a few strings…"

"That would be great," Harry agreed fervently. "Really great, professor; thank you so much."

"It's no trouble. To the right here, Harry; the pub's just down this–"

And that was when they heard it. Children and adults, muggles and wizards alike stopped and looked up in surprise as a deep, haunting howl echoed through the sky. Harry felt the hair on his arms stand up on end, and he looked over to Lupin, who had gone very still. No one spoke.

A moment later, the muggle boy who'd dressed as a wolf let out a false "howl" in return. Remus's head snapped around, but the other children only giggled, and a woman nearby shook her head. "Right silly, we are," she teased the two men. "Being frightened by a dog. Must be the Halloween spirit, eh?"

Remus managed a smile, but to Harry it seemed rather forced. "Must be," he agreed. The young mother hurried after her children, and the two wizards were left alone.

"…That wasn't a dog, was it?" Harry muttered under his breath. His fingers had drawn his wand under his cloak.

Lupin's face was very grim. "No, it wasn't. Stay here, Harry– no, strike that; if it's a trap we've better odds together than apart. Stay behind me, and keep your wand drawn– but mind you don't use it unless you have to."

He didn't need to tell Harry twice. The young wizard followed the werewolf down a side-street in the direction of the howl's origin. Within a few minutes they were at the edge of the village, looking out over the rolling hills and the cold autumn night. Harry turned to Remus and was startled to see that the man's eyes had turned a glowing yellow in the darkness, scanning the barren heath and taking in deep sniffs of the air. He was even more surprised when the professor appeared to relax, threw back his own head and let out a low but audible howl of his own.

For one long moment there was nothing. Then, seeming to arise out of the very shadows and gloom of the night, two figures slipped out of the darkness. As they approached, Harry could see that it was a man and a woman, the former very pale with almost white-blonde hair, the latter rather pretty with tangles of red hair so dark they were nearly auburn. Both were relatively clean, but their clothes were very old and threadbare, covered here and there with patches of unmatched cloth, and their cloaks seemed to be of a strange material which he realized was tanned deer-hide. The moment they reached Remus, both dropped to a knee, inclining their heads like knights to a king of old. Harry watched in shock as Remus inclined his head and spoke with a tone that could only be considered that of authority: * _"Sefyll i fyny."_

The two rose in unison, and then the pale man began to speak. _"Alpha Anterth. Yr wyf yn dod â newyddion o Alpha Bawen-Gwyn, o'r Carfan Bwgan Eira. Roedd yn ymestyn ei gyfarchion ac ewyllys da."_

 _"Ac yr wyf o Alpha Ffwr-Sun, o'r Carfan Lleuad Gwaed,"_ the woman broke in. _"Mae hi hefyd yn cynnig ei ffyddlondeb i'r Alpha Anterth."_

 _"Mae'r Alpha Anterth yn cydnabod y cyfeillgarwch o Carfan Bwgan Eira a Carfan Lleuad Gwaed,"_ Remus replied. _"Pa newyddion ydych chi wedi dod?"_

The two werewolves– for that was indubitably what they were– glanced to Harry warily. _"A ydych yn dymuno clywed y materion hyn ym mhresenoldeb y cenau dynol, Alpha Anterth?"_ the woman questioned darkly.

 _"Mae'r bachgen yn y teulu i mi, mab fy mrawd. Ac nid yw'n gwybod ein hiaith; gallwch siarad yn rhydd."_

Both nodded and then launched into what appeared to be a story of some length, interjecting and interrupting each other in turn. Remus's face went from shocked to pale to very, very grim, all in the space of about five minutes. When they were finished, he nodded and sighed, looking to Harry far older than he really was. _"Diolch i chi am eich adroddiadau,"_ he said wearily. _"Ymestyn fy niolch i'ch alphas; Ni fydd eu teyrngarwch yn cael ei anghofio."_ _  
_ _"Byddwn yn, Alpha Anterth."_

 _"Diolch, Alpha Anterth."_

Remus nodded gravely. _"Ewch ar bawennau cyflym."_

Each dropped to a knee again, and then rose and ran off with startling swiftness. Within moments, they were swallowed up by the darkness.

Remus turned with another sigh and blew on his hands again, rubbing them together. Harry cleared his throat. "Er– do you need to go tell someone what just happened, or–?"

"No– no, not right away. Actually, Harry, what I really need right now is drink. What do you say to a pint?"

* * *

The place Remus eventually led him to was a metal door in a back alley, on which were written the words, _Electrical – Keep Out!_ Harry, having had enough experience in the wizarding world to recognize a secret entrance when he saw one, waited while Remus tapped the door three times with his wand, and then pulled it open.

A burst of golden light and laughter poured out into the alley, and the pair slipped inside. Harry breathed in the delicious scent of brewing beer and looked around with interest. The pub was warm and full of patrons, from a group of stylishly dressed witches in a booth near the door to the old village regulars sitting (and occasionally tumbling off) their stools at the bar. Above the latter was a green sign emblazoned with gold lettering:

 _The Green-Eyed Witch_

accompanied by a drawing of a rather busty enchantress who winked her green eye and blew kisses at the customers.

"The others and I used to come here all the time," Remus said at his side, looking around the place with a nostalgiac smile. "The owner even gave us a special on drinks..."

"Think he'll remember you?"

"Mm. I doubt it, but you never know..."

It seemed, however, that the owner did recognize him, for an old, tough-skinned man behind the bar called out as they approached, "Well bless my buttons! Remus Lupin, is that you?"

The werewolf laughed and gave the man a hearty handshake and one-armed hug across the bar. "Cecil! I can't believe you recognized me, after all this time!"

"Ah, well, a good bartender never forgets his regulars." He winked and then looked to Harry. "And this must be the famous Harry Potter! You're a dead ringer for your father, boy– except the eyes, those are your mum's. Though I suppose you hear that all the time, eh?"

"A bit, yeah," Harry laughed. He liked the old man.

"Well sit down, sit down– looks like your old booth's open, Remus. A firewhiskey, I assume? Of course, of course. And for the boy?"

"Er– d'you suppose you could mix some firewhiskey and butterbeer?"

Cecil laughed. "A Prongs Special, eh? Should'a guessed it. Go on, sit down, I'll bring 'em right over– no, Remus, you put that coin-bag away, it's on the house. I insist! Go on, go on..."

With Cecil's cajoling the pair made their way over to a booth in the corner next to a glass-frosted window, over which hung a vintage Gryffindor quidditch flag. The bartender quickly brought them over their drinks, made a few more lighthearted jokes, and then was called away. Harry grinned; this was exactly the sort of place he could have pictured his father liking, with wood-paneled walls and a fire crackling merrily in a nearby hearth. He looked back, expecting to see Remus smiling at him, and was surprised to find that the werewolf was watching out the window, his eyes that strange yellow-gold that they had been just minutes previous out on the heath. Harry had no doubt as to what occupied his thoughts.

"Those were wild werewolves, weren't they?" he inquired in an undertone, drawing the professor's attention. "Ferals?"

Remus shook his head, taking a drink of his firewhiskey. "Wild, yes. Ferals, no."

"Huh. Don't suppose you'd tell me what all that was about?"

The professor glanced around and then leaned forward. "I can't tell you everything, if for nothing other than that you wouldn't be able to understand it all," he said in a low voice. "But considering what you saw, it might be better to explain than to leave you speculating… can I have your word you won't speak a word of this to anyone? Not even to Ron and Hermione?"

Harry hesitated and then nodded. Remus steepled his fingers and took a moment to compose his thoughts. "…The current population of werewolves in Great Britain, at least as far as I am aware, is around two hundred in full," he began. "Of that number, less than half are what you would call 'wild' werewolves, those who live in packs apart from ordinary society. The largest and oldest of these, at least in Great Britain, has traditionally _Yr Ysgithr Arian."_

"Greyback's pack," Harry recalled, thinking back to the article he had read a month earlier.

Remus hesitated. "Until recently, yes, it was."

Harry gave him a suspicious look. "Until recently?"

The professor didn't elaborate, instead taking a sip from his bottle. "Pack hierarchy is often very similar to that of an actual wolf pack," he continued as he set the drink down. "The group tends to consist of about ten to fifteen people, with the original 'sire' in charge of the rest– unless, and this is important, that position is challenged. This is a particularly grave matter for _Yr Ysgithr Arian_ because the alpha of the Silver Fang has traditionally held authority over the other packs; all the others supposedly submit to him. There's a particular title for it– the best English translation is something along the lines of the _Zenith Alpha."_

"You mean Greyback is in charge of every wild werewolf in Great Britain?"

"Again, until recently, he was." Remus ran a hand through his graying hair, looking exhausted, and suddenly Harry understood.

"But not anymore," he said shrewdly.

Remus shook his head wearily. "Not anymore." Straightening up, he nodded to the window and the darkness beyond. "Those werewolves you met were messengers from two of the other Welsh packs, the Red Moon and the Snow Ghost packs. Apparently Greyback contacted their alphas about a week ago, trying to make some sort of treaty."

"And they turned him down?" said Harry, surprised.

Remus laughed grimly. "Oh, absolutely. Greyback has not exactly done himself any favors in his relations with the Red Moon and Snow Ghost packs; he's repeatedly encroached on their territory, and now that he's no longer the Zenith Alpha they feel no obligation to respect him. Moreover, they grew suspicious when he spoke about attacking humans."

"Why?"

Remus gave him a long look, and Harry realized he'd said something offensive. "Sorry," he said quickly, dropping his eyes. "I just…"

"No… no, you couldn't be expected to know." The professor took another drink from his bottle, as if to bolster his courage, and then continued, "Not all wild werewolves share the same ideas about turning Feral. The Red Moon pack in particular has a prohibition against it; they, like myself, consider it unnatural and therefore immoral. The Snow Ghosts dislike it but will accept it as a side effect if they feel they need to attack a human for the purpose of revenge; nevertheless, they, too, agreed to cease such vengeance-killings on my orders. Unfortunately, my decision to forbid such attacks was rather unorthodox for the Zenith Alpha, and some of the packs weren't happy about it… if Greyback is recruiting, it could be very dangerous."

But now Harry was frowning. "That's something I've been wondering about," he admitted, glancing over to the other man nervously. "Er– if it's not too personal, Professor?"

Remus shrugged. "Considering we both just bawled our eyes out at your parents' graves, I don't know how much more personal it can get." When the other didn't even so much as smile, the werewolf frowned. "Harry?"

The young man hesitated, hands clutching at his mug nervously. It seemed he didn't want to meet Remus's eyes, and when he spoke, his words were carefully chosen. "…Why do some werewolves turn Feral? I mean… I know you mentioned that full moons are, er, difficult, but– some of them do it intentionally, don't they? Not just… I dunno, by losing control."

"Ah…" Harry glanced up to see that Remus's hazel eyes had turned dark; he stared down at his own drink, clearly uncomfortable, and the young man hastened to add, "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"No, it's… you may as well know; it could be valuable information to you someday, considering you're going into the Corps…"

"If you don't like discussing it…"

"No, no. It's fine." Remus paused, and then said, as frankly as he could manage, "Well, you're right to say that part of it is simply the temptation. The purpose of pleasure, biologically speaking, is to encourage a creature to do what will keep it healthy, preserve the species; the fact that we could take such pleasure in doing something so immoral, so unnatural …" The werewolf shook his head. "It shows that there's something really very disordered inside us."

Although Harry hurried to protest, Remus waved his hand dismissively. "It's not a judgment of my personal virtue, Harry; I didn't ask to have lycanthropy and I certainly don't enjoy it, but it is what it is. That disorder, that brokenness, it's simply a reality that I have to live with. But Fenrir Greyback, and many like him, believes that since werewolves are the stronger species, they have the right to hunt humans as easily as you hunt ducks or geese. He claims that because those urges are 'in our blood,' then it is not only natural but indeed our very right to act on them– and the way wizards have treated our kind certainly has not encouraged any compassion on their behalf…"

"But how does that matter?" Harry insisted. "I mean, it's still wrong to kill people, isn't it? No matter whether you're a werewolf or an ordinary wizard!"

"And I'm not disputing that. But Harry, if things were as simple as pointing out to people that what they're doing is wrong– why, all the problems of the world would be solved! No, the trouble lies in their arguments– and I can tell you, having lived with them, that their arguments can be very persuasive…

A sort of shadow crossed Remus's face, and for a moment Harry felt frightened. Had this man whom he had always considered to be good, one of his parents' dearest friends, ever been convinced by those arguments? He didn't want to believe it, but he'd learned from experience that making heroes out of his mentors was risky business.

But when Lupin spoke again, his words held no hint of anger or resentment. "…The whole problem, Harry, is that they have a point, as most convincing lies often do," the teacher admitted, voice uncharacteristically soft. "Genetically I am coded, so to speak, to hunt and kill the very people I call friends, if only but once a month. These werewolves, those who have turned Feral, believe it to be a natural urge; I know, of course, that it is a perversion of nature, a disruption of it, no less than any other genetic disease, but how can I explain that to them? They have not had my education, my good fortune; they are ignorant, and I can see no way of bringing them to enlightenment…"

He faded off, eyes distant, lost in his own world. After a moment, Remus shook his head as if to clear his thoughts and said, "But here I am complaining, when we should be toasting your parents' memories! Hardly a way to honor them, I'd say, moping about like this."

He offered a wry smile, and Harry grinned back, thinking it was probably safe to make a joke. "Being the Werewolf King of Great Britain isn't all it's cracked up to be, huh?"

Remus actually laughed at that. "Not really, no. But tell me, how've you been doing? How are things going with Ginny?" He winked, and the teenager blushed.

"Er…"

"Ah, still awkward, then?"

Harry coughed while Remus chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. "…Can I ask you something?" the younger wizard asked; the elder gestured for him to continue, knocking back th last of his firewhiskey. "How did you know? That you wanted to marry Tonks, I mean. Did it just sort of hit you, or…?"

"Oh." The professor blinked, surprised, and set his drink down with a shrug. "I suppose I'd known for a while that I _wanted_ to marry her; I very nearly asked her before I left on my mission, shortly after Sirius died…"

"Really? You always seemed sort of, er, unwilling…" Harry coughed. "Sorry, Professor."

Lupin's face seemed darkened with sadness for a moment, but he answered with a sort of irony, "Yes, well… the circumstances changed. I became a bit more, ah, ill-disposed towards marriage for a bit after that… eventually Professor Dumbledore's death, and a real talking-to from Professor McGonagall, brought me back to my senses."

"But how did you _know?"_ Harry pressed. "How did you know that– I dunno, that you were supposed to marry her?"

Remus raised an eyebrow. "Having second thoughts about Ginny, then?"

The young man blushed and dropped his eyes. "Not… not about _her,_ really…" he mumbled. "Just…"

He trailed off, and Remus realized that the young man had something of great weight on his mind. "Harry?" he inquired gently. "I promise, not a word of this will get back to Ginny."

"I just…" Harry began again and ran a hand through his dark hair, clearly unsure how to continue. Remus waited patiently.

"…My dad died when he was twenty-one," he said finally, and the professor felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. "He married my mum when they were only nineteen and… and they had a kid, and by the time that kid was two years old, they were gone. I can't… what if I can't afford to wait?"

"Oh, Harry…"

"I want to know my kids," the young man murmured. "I want them to be able to remember me, and not just in letters or pictures. I want to… I really want to _be_ there. Does that make any sense?"

Remus watched him sadly, a tightness growing in his throat. "Of course it does, Harry," he said quietly. "I want that too, more than anything in the world." The young wizard looked up, Lily's green eyes filled with uncertainty. "But Harry, your parents, Dora and I… we were at war; none of us knew if we would even live to see the next day."

"And I do?" Harry demanded, his hands gripping his mug so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "Remus, you were my age when you fought in the first war; who's to say by the time I'm yours there won't be another one? And who's to say I won't fall off my broom at practice next Saturday and that's it?"

The werewolf nodded compassionately. "I understand, Harry, really. You've lived the last several years– most of your late childhood– escaping from one tragedy to another. Fearing for your life, feeling that sort of pressure so constantly… it ages you, in ways most people can't comprehend." Harry shrugged. "But there's a time for everything under the sun, and to be honest, Harry, when it comes to marriage, I don't think that this is that time."

"But–"

"If there's one thing I've learned, it's that there's no use in worrying about tomorrow, other than to be able to do what's right and proper for today," said Remus firmly. "Rushing ahead, pulling back, trying to plan for every possible outcome… it's a waste of time and energy. Nobody can do that forever; you'll kill yourself trying."

"Then how can you possibly decide?" Harry demanded. "How do you know when it's _right?_ Do you just wait to– to feel ready?"

"Oh, trust me, you are _never_ going to feel ready for marriage. I'm married and I don't feel ready for marriage!" At the teenager's perplexed look, the werewolf sighed. "Harry, if you're looking for a failsafe checklist, I'm afraid I don't have one. The best advice I have is this: whenever you're uncertain on what to do, don't ask yourself if it's comfortable or, even worse, respectable. Ask yourself if it's _good."_ He fixed the boy with a steady hazel gaze and ordered, "Tell me honestly: do you think that marrying Ginny right now is _good?"_

There was a pause as Harry stared down at the table. After a few seconds, he said with a tone of surprise, "…No. No, I don't. It's… it's too soon, honestly. We were only going out for a month at the end of sixth year, and last year… I mean, we barely saw each other…"

"I agree," said Remus mildly, "I don't think it's prudent. You two should wait, get to know each other better instead of jumping into a commitment so serious right away."

"But what do I do? I can't just call off the engagement."

"Can't you?"

Harry stared at him. "Are you _mad?_ She'd hate me!"

"I wouldn't be so sure. If you're feeling rushed, don't you think it's possible she may be, too?" At Harry's dubious look, Remus chuckled. "Just take my word on this one, Harry. Talk to Ginny, see what she thinks. I'd bet ten galleons she's been feeling the same way."

Although Harry still wasn't quite certain, he agreed to give it a try. Their conversation drifted to more light-hearted topics, and soon Harry was laughing at story after story of the Marauders' finer practical jokes and grinning at James's many failed attempts to woo Lily Evans, before, as Lupin put it, "He grew a brain and realized girls generally tend to like blokes who aren't self-absorbed little man-children." They each ordered another round, and as Remus launched into a tale of the day Sirius had arrived at a detention with McGonagall via a broomstick and an open window, Harry realized that an ache he hadn't even known he'd felt was loosening in his chest. He had never had someone to buy him a drink and give him advice on girls, to tell stories of ridiculous antics accompanied with the sage words of, "don't you ever do this, but…" and that assuring strength that made Harry feel as if he could finally trust that everything would be alright in the end. It felt good, he realized, and for a moment he felt guilty, before he realized that his father would have approved.

He told Remus as much, and the man grew a bit misty eyed. "To Lily and James," he said solemnly, but with a smile, and raised his glass.

Harry raised his own, and they clinked them together.

"To Lily and James."

* * *

Hogsmeade on All Hallow's Eve was certainly a sight to behold. The underclassmen had all returned to the castle per their curfew, the village children to their houses having finished their trick-or-treating, and now the village seemed to burst to life as the elder students ran from shop to shop, laughing– some shoving each other into the snow, others sitting behind frost-glazed windows in warm pubs, smiling at each other over tankards of butterbeer and firewhiskey, but everyone in a fantastic mood.

Well– nearly everyone. One figure walked alone through the frozen streets, a fine dusting of fallen snow clinging to his black woolen cloak. Despite his newfound hope for the future, life at the moment was rather bleak for one Draco Malfoy; he was essentially friendless, loveless, and at the current moment, rather cold and bored. He considered popping into the Three Broomsticks for a pint of warm apple cider, but immediately dismissed the idea; in such a public place he was bound to get ugly stares, perhaps even threats. The Hog's Head, then? No– Dumbledore's brother owned the place; there wasn't much of a chance he'd get any service there…

He was nearly made up to just return to the castle and go down to the kitchens to for a little food when a voice from behind called his name: "Draco!"

The young wizard turned; walking down the street, though keeping to the shadows and flanked on every side by scornful glances, strode a tall, white-haired man. Draco's face split into a grin and he ran forward, embracing the man happily. "Father! What are you doing here?"

"What, can't a man visit his own son without ulterior motives?" Lucius Malfoy quipped with a chuckle, drawing back. His son snorted, and then spared a look around; people had turned away with looks of disgust. "Come," Lucius said quietly, redrawing the boy's attention, "We have much to discuss."

They slipped off down a darker side-street and walked for several paces without speaking, simply enjoying the other's company. "How is mother?" Draco said eventually, breaking the silence.

"Well enough. She's taken to pacing about the house; I think she ought to get out more, but then…"

His father faded off, and Draco nodded. His parents were no doubt facing the same troubles he was; traitors of the blood-purist cause, yet Death Eaters nonetheless, the Malfoys were welcome nowhere in their own world. "But I didn't come here to discuss your mother," Lucius said firmly, "I wanted to talk to _you._ Tell me, how has school been? Are you keeping up in your classes?"

Draco launched into a explanation of his schoolwork, speaking with enthusiasm about the work they'd been doing in alchemy. Lucius nodded along as they walked through the empty cobblestone streets. Soon enough the conversation turned to the matter of his careers counseling. "So that old dolt managed to do his job, did he?" Lucius questioned as they rounded a corner and passed by Madame Pudifoot's. Draco had to hide a snigger as he saw two fifth years snogging passionately, oblivious to anything else, on the other side of the window.

"It's all set," Draco agreed, deciding to keep the fact that Professor Lupin had been the one to make the arrangements to himself; he doubted his father would approve. "I'm to start my internship in January." Lucius nodded, and the boy hesitated. "Father– I know you don't like St. Mungo's–"

"Nonsense, Draco. Healing is an honorable profession, and a very prosperous one– especially with your talents. I'm surprised I didn't think of it myself." His father glanced over and gave him a smile. "I am sure you will do your mother and me proud."

Draco smiled slightly and inclined his head, as if this were only natural, though inside he was glowing with pride. As they rounded a corner, he added, "I was hoping for my senior thesis that I could use my knowledge in alchemy to try to improve some medical potion; it would be a pleasant challenge, and I'm sure St. Mungo's would–"

But that was when it happened. Lucius's legs seemed to give out beneath him; the end of his cane slipped on a patch of ice and the man collapsed to the ground.

"Father!" Immediately Draco's knees were on the hard cobblestones; Lucius was struggling to push himself up with his arms alone; he'd braced his gloved hands against the cobblestones, shaking, and Draco could see through the veil of blond hair that his father's teeth were gritted in pain. Tiny emerald sparks zipped like fireflies behind his silver eyes.

Slowly, with great effort, the elder Malfoy managed to push himself to one knee, and then, with the younger's help, stood up again. Draco handed his father the silver-topped cane, which Lucius somehow managed to rest on and still look elegantly nonchalant. It was a talent, his son knew, that had been developed from necessity; a Malfoy always kept his dignity, no matter the agony.

"Did anyone notice?" his father demanded in a low voice. His gloved hands were still clutching hard at the silver snake's head.

"No one," the younger vowed, but there was worry in his voice. "Father–"

"I'm fine, Draco. Fine." He seemed to draw on his strength, and then stood up straight, holding the cane now with only one hand. "A minor misfortune. Nothing more."

And it never was, Draco knew, or at least, he was never to question it. His father was a proud man; it was for this reason that his injury was never spoken outside of the immediate family, and even then rarely to the youngest member. He supposed that Father had discussed it with Mother, behind closed doors where pride counted for nothing… but before the world, and before his son, Lucius Malfoy was the very image of self-esteem, and so it would remain.

"Well, I– I suppose I'd best be getting back to your mother," Lucius continued, clearing his throat. "You know how she hates to be alone in the house…"

"Father, are you sure you can apparate on your own–"

"Of course I am," Lucius said sharply, and Draco bit his tongue, looking down. His father's face softened. "…We'll talk again soon. Have a good evening, Draco."

"And you, father. Give my love to mother."

Lucius smiled and embraced his son tightly. "My bright young man," he said warmly, drawing back and letting a hand rest on the boy's shoulder. "Mark my words, Draco; you'll bring honor to the family name."

"Thank you, father."

Lucius inclined his head, and then turned and disapparated, leaving his son alone once again in the silently falling snow.

For a long time– how long, he couldn't really tell– Draco walked alone through the village, lost in thought. He thought of his father and his family name, about his mother alone in the old manor and about the way things had been when he was a child. He thought about Professor Lupin, about the War and the dark lord. He thought about the hospital, his future and, perhaps more than anything, about the tattoo on his wrist, hidden now by his warm winter clothes, but still there, burnt black into his skin. Would he ever be able to redeem himself of it, Draco wondered? Would there ever come a day when his name was respected again in good society, when he could walk down the street without hisses of derision sounding at his back? And in the end, did it matter what anyone else thought?

So lost was he in thought that he didn't hear the footsteps slapping the cobblestones behind him until the intruder was nearly upon him, and a haunting call: _"Run!"_

Startled, he whirled around, drawing his wand, but there was no time; a hand grabbed his arm and dragged him down the road. He caught a glimpse of golden curls and a raspberry cloak before he was being pulled into an open shed, the door slamming tightly shut behind him, and labored panting in the darkness. He pulled away from the other figure, startled. "Oy! What do you think you're–"

 _"Be quiet!"_

He blinked. "I beg your–"

A hand slapped over his mouth, muffling his words. "Be quiet, be _quiet,_ you idiot!" Lavender Brown moaned, her voice pitched with hysteria. "Haven't you any sense? Or do you want them to find us!"

* * *

Ten minutes previous, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley walked out of the Three Broomsticks Inn and Pub, laughing and talking as they shut the door behind them. "I still feel like such an idiot," Ron said with a chuckle, shaking his head.

"Nonsense; it's not like you asked to get hit by a bludger."

"Yeah, well… it's your fault anyhow."

She raised a teasing eyebrow. _"My_ fault?"

"You distracted me!" Ron accused, but he was grinning. "You and your feminine wiles–"

"Oh, it's my feminine wiles, is it?"

"If you weren't so good-looking I would've been able to keep my eyes on the game!"

"Is that so! Well, Ronald Weasley, I'll have you know that I quite like my 'feminie wiles' and I intend to– _mmf!"_

She was cut off by the sudden feeling of his lips against hers; for a moment the witch was startled, before she melted into it, relishing in the feeling of his right hand on her hip and his left buried in her cloud of curly hair. When Ron pulled away, she smirked up at him, and he blushed, disentangling his fingers from her hair only to rub the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Sorry," he apologized. "I, er, probably should have asked first…"  
"Probably." She stood up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. "But I liked it."

Ron grinned despite his ruddy complexion, and together they took off down the main street, hand-in-hand. "So, er, what was the whole deal with what happened on Wednesday?" the wizard asked nonchalantly. "You looked pretty upset when you ran off, Hermione…"

"Oh, that," she sighed. "Really, Ron, it was nothing."

"Oh."

He didn't say it rudely, or even with annoyance, but Hermione caught the slight inflection of uncertainty in the syllable and frowned. "Ron? Are you alright?"

"Huh? Oh, uh, no, I'm fine…"

"Ron!" she insisted, stepping ahead of him to cut him off. The redhead wasn't meeting her eyes. "Something's wrong," she asserted, "I can tell. Was it something I said?"

"No, it's– it's stupid, Hermione, honestly, don't worry about it." When she raised an eyebrow, he sighed and shrugged. "Well… I mean, it's just that you clearly felt comfortable telling Harry. I just thought, y'know, you'd be okay with telling me, too."

"Oh," Hermione sighed, relieved to know what the problem was. "Ron, it was just the same sort of things that were getting to me, you know, down in the Chamber. I just didn't want to rehash them again, that's all."

"Oh," he said again, but now with concern. "Hermione, I didn't realize– are you okay? I mean, I shouldn't have even brought it up–"

"Ron, I'm fine!" the witch insisted. "I was just feeling a little down; if you'd been there I would have said the same to you." When he didn't respond, she frowned. "Ron, you… you _do_ know that, don't you?"

"'Course I do," he said, unconvincingly.

"Because I'm _not_ interested in Harry. He's like my brother, honestly."

"I know!" he said, almost defensively. "It's just, well–"

"Well?"

"Well– well, you liked him once, didn't you?"

Hermione stared, shocked. "Is _that_ what you're worried about?" Ron shrugged noncomittally, and she laughed. "Ron, that was _third year!_ And honestly, if you hadn't been being such a prat–"

"Hey, I didn't know that my pet rat was secretly a mass-murderer," he pointed out.

"Do you really mean to tell me that you've been jealous of _Harry?_ Over _me?"_ He shrugged again, and she shook her head. "Ron, that's ridiculous! Why would you even feel that way?" When he didn't answer, instead looking away, she took a step forward, worried. "…Ron?"

"I just… I'm no one special, 'Mione," the redhead said uncomfortably. "I'm not smart or honest or even all that brave. I'm not a genius or Quidditch Captain or the Boy Who Lived. I'm just Ron. And I- I don't know why 'just Ron' would be all that special to you."

Hermione was frowning at him with concern, which made his ears go red, and he glanced away. He knew _she_ knew he was telling the truth, and it made him feel pitiful and pathetic. A jealous little brat insecure with himself that he couldn't match up to his best friends.

"Ron Weasely, I don't ever want to hear you say that again," Hermione said fiercely, and he looked back to her, surprised. "You are _absolutely_ special and important, and _not_ just because you're Harry's friend, either."

"'Mione-"

"No, you listen to me!" Her eyes were blazing. "I've seen you, Ron, I've watched you these last few months. Do you think I don't notice that you're the one shouldering all the burden? For your family, for Harry, for _me?"_ She poked him hard in the chest. "Do you think I don't know it's you Ginny goes to talk to when she's missing Fred? Do you think I didn't realize how hard it was for you to write George every week, trying to get him off the bottle? Do you think I don't see you keep Harry steady when he's about to break down? You're a rock for him, Ron, for all of us."

"But I'm not-"

"You, Ronald Weasely, are the _strongest_ man I have ever met. A lot of lesser people wouldn't have stuck around with Harry when everything turned against him. A lot of lesser people wouldn't have bothered being friends with the know-it-all girl in the front of the class. You take care of us and of your family, and honestly, Ron, I don't know what I'd do without you." She touched his cheek, a little of her fire fading. "When people need something done, they go to Harry," she said honestly. "But when they need- when _I_ need- someone to hold us together, someone to depend on, someone who'll be there through anything life could throw at us… Ron, that's when we go to you. And I– I love you for that."

He gaped it her, stunned; Hermione, too, was blushing. "…You love me?" he said hoarsely. The witch nodded and dropped her gaze, self-conscious, and the wizard summoned his courage. "Well, er– I love you too, Hermione."

The woman looked up, surprised. "Really?"

"Really." He grinned, and she smiled and then laughed. They embraced each other tightly, eyes-closed and smiling. Neither could remember ever feeling happier.

Then from behind Hermione came a low, blood-chilling chuckle.

Both broke apart; Hermione whirled around and stifled a scream. Fenrir Greyback leered at them with sharp white teeth; his eyes gleamed yellow. "What a beautiful picture," he mocked, taking a step forward; Ron drew his wand and shoved Hermione behind him. "Young love…"

More figures were stepping out of the alleyway, and Ron levels his wand. "Touch her and you're dead," he vowed, but his voice jumped at the end.

"Oh," Greyback said, pulling a falsely sympathetic face, "such _courage._ I always love it when they play hero." He threw a nod back to the others and ordered in quite a different voice, "Disperse. Hit as many of the shops as you can." Obediently the rest turned and ran off down the road; within seconds, screams were echoing from the next block over.

"My, my, she _is_ a pretty one," Greyback said, stalking closer; Ron's wand shook in his hand. "I remember her… and I remember you, too." The werewolf affected a pleading falsetto. _"'Take me instead! Take me instead!'"_ He chuckled. "I think that can be arranged…"

The Gryffindor summoned his courage. "Come and try it, then!"

Greyback snarled and lunged just as Ron brandished his wand.

* * *

By the time Harry and Remus left _The Green-Eyed Witch,_ both were laughing and rosy from good drink and good company. Harry's head was buzzing pleasantly; neither he nor Remus had had anywhere near enough to get drunk, but the younger wizard was a bit tipsy and was very grateful when Remus offered to side-along apparate him back to Hogsmeade.

"Hey, Remus," he said, as the werewolf closed the garden gate and resealed the silencing charms, "I just wanna say… thanks for this. I, er, I really felt like I got to know my parents tonight, even if only a little, and… well, just thanks."

Remus smiled. "It was my pleasure, Harry. Your arm?" Harry offered it, and a moment later he felt the distinctly uncomfortable sense of being yanked through space and time. A moment later his feet slammed into the cobblestoned ground of Hogsmeade; he stumbled, regained his footing, and then–

And then, he realized, that he could hear screaming.

He looked up, startled, and found that the square had been trashed. Windows were broken; the shops and road were abandoned– no, not quite; a young girl was scrambling back on the ground, pleading vainly as a hulking figure in tattered clothes stalked closer and closer–

 _"AVADA KEDAVRA!"_

Harry barely had time to register that Lupin had used an Unforgiveable before the figure– one of the largest, most brutal-looking man he had ever seen– crumpled to the ground in a flash of green light. The woman was still sobbing, curled up in a corner against the frozen-over well; Lupin rushed over and knelt down beside her, but she screamed again and shrank away. _"No! No, please! Go away, just go away-!"_

"Hey," Harry interjected, rushing over, "He's not going to hurt you, okay? We're the good guys." The girl sniffled and looked up; Harry recognized her as one of the Hufflepuff third-years. "Let's get you back to the castle, come on–"

Another scream split the frozen air, not far off. Remus had gone pale. "Harry, get her back to the castle; go through the Honeydukes' passage."

"Professor–"

"Harry, just _go!"_

The teenager nodded, pulling the girl to her feet. "Okay, come on, let's go–" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lupin rush off in the direction of the new scream, and then the werewolf was gone.

He and the third-year sprinted down the frozen streets towards the candy shop; they rounded the corner onto the main street and dashed into the store, which had been likewise vandalized and abandoned. Harry tore open the door to the cellar and shone his wand inside; there was no sound. "Okay," he muttered to the terrified girl, "Okay, this way–"

From the street behind him there came the haunting echo of terrified cries; Harry froze. For a moment he wavered, remembering Lupin's orders. If he died tonight, Remus would never forgive himself…

The cries came again, and Harry made up his mind. "Go down into the cellar," he ordered the girl, whose eyes had gone wider than quaffles. "There's a secret passageway under the center stone tile; keep going and you'll eventually get back to Hogwarts. There's a stone slide on the end, but if you tap it and say _ascendo–"_ He was immediately grateful to have learned that little trick from Lupin, not half an hour ago, "–it will turn into a staircase. Okay?"

The girl nodded, clearly terrified, and Harry urged her down the steps into the cellar before shutting the door tightly behind her and then rushing out of the store.

The screaming was louder out here; Harry scanned the streets wildly and realized that they were coming from the Three Broomsticks. He sprinted to the pub and into the door, whereupon a grisly sight met his eyes. Madame Rosmerta was lying motionless in a pool of blood while a terrified waitress stood pinned to the wall by none other than a laughing Fenrir Greyback.

Harry didn't think twice: he pointed his wand and shouted, _"Stupify!"_

Whatever he was expecting to happen, it didn't; the red jet of light hit Greyback, who let out a yowl and whirled around, but by no means was knocked unconscious. The waitress took the opportunity to scamper out the back door. "Who the blazes do you think you–" Greyback roared, and then stopped. Harry swallowed and took a step back.

"Well, look who it is," the werewolf breathed, a predatory grin curling his lips. Harry could see his teeth, filed to a point– or perhaps that was just the way they grew on Ferals? "The pup. Yes, I remember that the Mutt was quite fond of you…"

"Don't you call Remus that," Harry retorted, sounding rather braver than he felt.

Greyback paid him no heed. "I think I'll quite enjoy this. Imagine the look on the Mutt's face when he finds out you're dead." He laughed. "Probably bawl his eyes out, the cur."

And that was when Harry did something both very brave and very stupid: he charged the werewolf.

Greyback knocked him into the wall with a blow like a rushing freight train, and Harry felt his head smack, _hard,_ against the wall. Stars twinkled in his eyes as the blurry figure of Fenrir Greyback move towards him and–

 _SNAP!_

Harry let out a bellow of pain as his leg was broken by a well placed kick to the shin from Greyback's bare feet; the hardened nails on the toe scraped away cloth and skin and left him bleeding as the Feral grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him violently to the floor. The wizard's wand went skittering out of his hand. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears a Greyback dropped to a knee over him, teeth bared. "Say goodnight, pup," the Feral laughed.

He was going to die, Harry realized; his breath came in quick, panicky bursts. He was going to die, right here, right now, and it was going to be long and slow and awful–

 _"DON'T YOU TOUCH HIM!"_

The roar of fury was the only warning Harry had before a blurred mass barreled into Greyback, full-on tackling him off of the boy and into the legs of the nearest table.

Harry had only ever seen the "wolf" in Lupin twice before: once on the full moon in his third year, and again the night he had called him a coward in Grimmauld Place. Both times it had been a fleeting glimpse, swallowed up in the next moment by the full transformation or Lupin's sudden exit.

This time was different. The brawl was brutal and violent; Remus dealt two ruthless blows to the other werewolf's face, breaking his nose and causing the man to let out a howl of pain, before Greyback wrenched him sideways by the collar and rolled both over so that he had the upper hand, slamming the professor's head into the floor of the pub with a sickening _crack!_

Harry thought for sure that was the end of it, but he couldn't have been more wrong; far from being knocked unconscious, Remus grabbed the Feral by shoulders and pulled him down, flipping both over backwards. Greyback tried to shove him off, but Remus held on and they both rolled sideways, kicking and striking each other as much as they could in the process.

After a few seconds of violent scuffle Lupin ended up on top with Greyback belly-down beneath him, head wrenched up in a painful headlock. Both of them were turned away from Harry, who was struggling desperately to try to reach his wand, but he froze when he heard possibly the most chilling sound of his life:

" _Rhowch reswm i mi, Greyback,"_ Lupin growled, a deep, guttural noise that raised the hairs on Harry's arms. _"Rhowch reswm i mi ac yr wyf yn tyngu,_ _byddaf yn rhwygo allan eich gwddf."_

Greyback rasped out a laugh. "In front of the kiddies, Lupin? And you claim to be civilized."

"Try me!" the werewolf snarled, hiking the man's head up higher.

But that was his mistake. Quick as blinking, Greyback grabbed hold of the arm around his neck and pulled Lupin to the ground, driving his knee hard into the younger werewolf's sternum and knocking the wind out of him. He pinned the professor's arms to the ground, lowering his snarling maw until he was face-to-face with the teacher.

"Rip out _my_ throat?" Greyback hissed, baring his fangs. "You belong to me, Mutt– or have you forgotten who made you?" He slashed his claws across Lupin's face; the professor let out a roar of pain as blood spattered across the floor. "And if you think I'm going to wait around for your bitch to come lock me up, you've got another think coming. Now I'm going to give you one last chance:–" He lowered his face to Remus's and hissed, "Hand it over and tell me where they are, and _maybe_ I'll let you run."

Lupin groaned, clearly in agony, and then, much to Harry's shock, he managed to gasp out:

 _"Not on your life."_

Enraged, Greyback snarled and lifted his knee, to slam it down hard against Lupin's chest; the man cried out again as several ribs broke. "You know, usually I can't stand the taste of you," Greyback leered, "but tonight I'll make an exception. So where should I start? The heart? The neck?"

Harry struggled desperately to reach his wand, just two inches beyond his fingertips. He had to get to it– he'd never forgive himself if he didn't–

"Oh, who am I kidding?" Greyback laughed. "Let's make it slow. I do love it when they scream."

And that was when Harry summoned all of his focus and shouted, _"Accio wand!"_

Miraculously, the holly-and-phoenix stave shot into his hands just as Greyback looked over, startled. Harry scrambled onto his one good foot and leveled his wand at the Feral. "Get away from him," he ordered.

Greyback stood up, sneering. "If you think I won't take you once I've finished with him–"

The pub door burst open with a half-dozen bellowed shouts of _"Stupefy!",_ effectively cutting him off as the werewolf was forced to dodge the red jets of light. He snarled as the aurors poured into the room, eyeing them as they aimed their wands once more. "Give it up, Greyback!" Tonks ordered at the forefront. "Come in quietly and maybe I'll let you see another full moon!"

Greyback seemed to be thinking very fast. Before anyone could cast another spell, he spat in Lupin's face, let out a loud howl as if calling to the others, and then disapparated with a crack.

The whole pub was silent for a moment, before one of the lower-ranked officers demanded, "What the fuck was that?!"

"Did he just disapparate?"

"Alright, everyone, seal off the area!" Tonks ordered, taking control of the situation. "I want anti-apparition wards all over this town for the next twenty-four hours! Payne, Kopp, start doing rounds, see if anyone else got hurt."

"Yes, ma'am."

"On it, Chief."

"Harry, don't move." Tonks hurried over, checking him for injuries. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

"My leg–" Now that the adrenaline had worn off, the pain had returned full force; Harry could feel the blood leaving his face.

But Tonks was not the chief auror for nothing; with a muttered spell Harry felt the bone realign and seal together. The pain vanished. "Thanks. But Professor Lupin–"

"I know; go to the castle and get Madame Pomfrey. Hurry!"

He nodded and ran off, leaving Dora to drop to her knees beside her husband. "Remus, love, where are you hurt? What can I do?"

"Eyes," he moaned, a hand still clutching at his face; blood was running down in rivulets through his fingers. "My eyes–"

"Bloody basilisks," she swore, tearing off a strip of cloth from the bottom of her robes. "Alright, Remus, I'm going to try to stem the bleeding; this is going to hurt–"

He bellowed as she moved aside his hand and pressed the cloth down against his eyes. "Sorry! I'm sorry, love, just hold on, Madame Pomfrey will be here any second…"

Harry, meanwhile, was hurrying down the street towards the Hogwarts path as quickly as he could on his newly-mended leg. He skittered around the corner and stopped short in relief; it seemed that the villagers had set up a sort of triage in the middle of the road, and Madame Pomfrey had taken charge, hurrying from one injured villager to the next in a whirlwind and barking orders over her shoulder at several frightened students. "Seal the scratches up, quickly! Pull the bandage tighter, Miss Brown– Mr. Malfoy, I need more dittany; hurry! Miss Granger–"

"Madame Pomfrey!" Harry gasped, running up. "Professor Lupin– he's injurred– Rosmerta, too–"

"Where?"

"The Three Broomsticks–"

Without waiting for another word, the infirmarian set off down the street. All around more healers were apparating into the vicinity; the villagers stood around in a gawping ring, gathering thicker and thicker like onlookers at a muggle car crash. Harry pushed his way forward into the center of the bodies. He spotted a young boy sitting on his own with his arm in a sling; a man lay unconscious on the ground.

"You there! Harry Potter!"

He turned, dazedly; a nun in a pale green habit bearing embroidered mark of St. Mungo's looked back at him with steely eyes. "How many people were bitten?"

"I– I don't know– I just–"

"One," a familiar voice choked out, and Harry turned. Hermione looked back at him with tears rolling down her face. "Just– just one."

Harry felt his stomach drop; he forced his gaze to lower, each inch seeming to take more willpower than he knew he possessed, to the limp figure on the cobblestone. Then the world shifted off its foundations, and he dropped to his knees.

Ron lay pale and unconscious on the ground, oblivious to the world, his deathly white skin a stark contrast to his flaming hair and the streams of red blood running sluggishly from the crescent-shaped bite on his forearm.

* * *

 **A/N: …Sorry.**

 ***Translations: (again, native Welsh speakers, please pardon any mistakes; Google Translate is not known for its accuracy, although I did my best to get the translation as accurate as possible).**

 _ **1.)**_

" _Stand up."_

The two rose in unison, and then the pale man began to speak. _"Zenith Alpha. I bring news from Alpha Whitepaw, of the Snow Ghost Pack. He extends his greetings and goodwill."_

 _"And I from Alpha Sunfur, of the Blood Moon Pack,"_ the woman broke in. _"She also offers her loyalty to the Zenith Alpha."_

 _"The Zenith Alpha recognizes the friendship of the Snow Ghost and Blood Moon packs,"_ Remus replied. _"What news have you brought?"_

Both of the werewolves– for that was indubitably what they were– glanced to Harry warily. _"Do you wish to hear these matters in the presence of the human pup, Zenith Alpha?"_ the woman questioned darkly.

 _"The boy is family to me, the son of my brother. And he does not know our language; you can speak freely."_

Both nodded and then launched into what appeared to be a story of some length, interjecting and interrupting each other in turn. Remus's face went from shocked to pale to very, very grim, all in the space of about five minutes. When they were finished, he nodded and sighed, looking to Harry far older than he really was.. _"Thank you for your reports,"_ he said wearily. _"Extend my thanks to your alphas; their loyalty will not be forgotten."_

 _"We will, Zenith Alpha."_

 _"Thank you, Zenith Alpha."_

 _"Go on swift paws."_

Each dropped to a knee again, and then rose and ran off with startling swiftness. Within moments, they were swallowed up by the darkness.

 _ **2.)**_

 _"Give me a reason, Greyback,"_ Lupin growled, a deep, guttural noise that raised the hairs on Harry's arms. _"Give me a reason and I swear, I will rip out your throat."_


	20. Chapter 20: Before the Moon

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do I profit from this work produced here. The lullaby Remus sings to Teddy is an old Welsh song, called _Suo Gan._ I've changed the lyrics a bit so that it makes sense from a father's perspective.

 **Warnings: reference to gory medical treatment, a few references to religion, implicit okay-ness with slavery (from two purebloods).**

 **This is a shorter chapter, and it's a bit of an interlude between the last one and the full moon. Sorry if it's not as exciting, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!**

 **Guest: Thank you so much! I'm an American Catholic wanna-be writer/theologian, and if I could speak my second language as well as you speak yours I'd be working in Spain by now, haha.** **I'm not sure when/if I'll be bringing the Antonellis back, but if I do I would love to have your help with the Itallian translations (versus that of the notoriously fallible Google Translate). I try to include Catholic elements, both expressly and intrinsically, in all of my work, but in a way that's not heavy-handed; I like to make my characters "wrestle with God" a bit, so to speak. Thanks again for your such a lovely review, and** _ **pax et bonum!**_

* * *

 _"Remus. Remus, love, you need to wake up… there's a man here to talk to you…"_

Remus stirred and tried to open his eyes, but the world remained dark. He moved his hands and found them pressed against something soft and slightly cool; there was the smell of healing potions and Highland air, drifting in on a breeze from somewhere on his right, and the chirruping of birds. By these he deduced that he was in the hospital wing, but when he tried again to open his eyes and look around, it seemed that someone had frozen his eyelids shut. "Dora?" he called uncertainly, struggling to sit up; immediately a shock of pain rushed through his chest, causing him to draw a sharp breath.

"Shh." Two hands pressed against his shoulders, pushing him back into the pillow. "Don't try to move too much, love; your bones are still healing."

"I can't see," he said, beginning to panic. "Dora, why can't I see?"

"You were in a fight, Remus." Another voice caught his attention; how many people were around him? A quick sniff informed him that he wasn't alone; there were five other people in the hospital wing, including Madame Pomfrey, who had spoken, Professor McGonagall, and his wife. Besides them there were two other scents, the nearer belonged to a man whom he didn't recognize, smelling strongly of cologne, and–

Remus's breath caught. Immediately he fought to sit up again, but the insistent hands pushed him back into bed. "Remus! Remus, calm down! Remus–"

 _"Petrificus totalis!"_

Immediately his whole body went rigid at Professor McGonagall's expert spellwork. Remus tried to fight, but it seemed that the headmistress's will was stronger than his. He couldn't focus, his thoughts were whirling, this was all his fault, he should _never_ have come here–

"Remus, you need to calm down or you'll hurt yourself," he heard Madame Pomfrey say, in a tone more appropriate to giving orders than information. "You've been through a traumatic operation and it's going to take you a while to heal. Your eyes were unsalvageable, but I'm growing you a new pair in my laboratory as we speak; that's why you can't see."

 _"Mufflatio,"_ he heard Dora mutter, and then his wife spoke to him: "Remus, Investigator Srivener is here from the Auror's Office to ask you a few questions about what happened last night. We'll take the jinx off, but you've got to stay lying down, alright?" He tried to nod, but found he couldn't; instead, he managed a sort of grunt from deep in the back of his throat. "I'll take that as a yes. _Corpus mobile!"_

Immediately he felt his muscles relax; Remus cocked an ear and heard the soft, even breathing coming from over in the other bed, and the guilt twisted hard in his stomach. He wanted to demand an explanation for the fifth scent, but had the good sense to realize this wasn't something to be shouted out in front of strangers, so instead he reached up to touch his face. A bandage had been wrapped around his head in front of where his eyes should have been, and he felt a bit more in control now that he realized exactly what had happened. "Investigator," he said, as calmly as he could manage, turning towards the location from where the unfamiliar scent was emanating. He felt a slight satisfaction when the man jumped, but immediately it was swallowed by his worry. "How may I help you?"

"Good morning, Mr. Lupin." The man's voice was somehow both oily and nervous, as if he were used to getting his way with ordinary wizards but had no idea what to expect from a werewolf. "The Auror Office has a few questions it wants to ask you and thought it would be, ah, more objective to send another officer…"

"I understand entirely. Please, continue."

"Yes, ah, well…" He heard pages crinkle. "Mr. Lupin, during our investigation of last night's attack, we found the body of one Feral werewolf who we later matched to our records of a Mr. Eryl Maddox. Would you happen to know of him?"

"Brown-haired, with a jagged scar on his jaw?"

"So you did know him, then?"

"Yes, but not that name; I'd only ever heard of him referred to as Brushtail."

"I see. Our coroners determined that he died around half-eleven last night, by a killing curse. We've examined your wand and ascertained that you cast such a curse around the same time."

"Yes. I killed him," Remus replied quietly.

"Very well, that clears matters up quite nicely. Thank you for your time." There was the sound of a chair creaking, as if the man had made to stand, and Remus tilted his head upwards, startled.

"Aren't you going to arrest me?"

"Arrest you? Whatever for?"

"I'm a murderer. I killed a man in cold blood…"

"A Feral," the investigator replied in surprise.

"A human being," Remus countered sharply. "I murdered another human being. Isn't that the sort of thing you take people in for?"

"Remus, love– you did what you had to do–" Dora began, but he shook his head.

"I could have used a different spell. Shot him, perhaps– or cast a silver net– I was just so angry…"

"Mr. Lupin, no one is going to arrest you for exterminating a Feral," the investigator said coolly, snapping his briefcase closed. "They're fair game for any witch or wizard– even one such as yourself. Anyone can kill them on sight; you did the wizarding world a favor." Remus didn't reply, but Nymphadora could tell from his expression that he was positively sick with self-loathing. "Chief Lupin, you can expect my report on your desk by three this afternoon."

"Thank you, Scrivener. A good day to you."

"And to you, ma'am. Professor, Sister."

There was the sound of a few footsteps, and a sort of sucking noise as the man stepped outside of the silencing wards. Remus waited until he was quite sure that he was gone, and then he spoke the question whose answer he dreaded to hear: "What is Ronald Weasley doing in the hospital wing?"

There came a trio of gasps; he heard Dora mutter a curse under her breath. Madame Pomfrey sounded faint. "But how could you possibly–"

"I can smell him from here– and your dittany, Sister. How badly was he hurt?"

"…Not too badly," the healer replied, after a moment's guilty hesitation. "He didn't lose much blood–"

 _"Then why is he unconscious?"_

Their hesitant silence was all the explanation he needed, and he settled back into the pillows, sick with guilt. "Merlin, no…"

"Remus, we wanted to tell you, but he wouldn't give us permission to say a word, not to anyone." McGonagall sighed. "Poor boy… he won't even let us release the information to his parents…"

"Well, he is of age," Remus pointed out tiredly. "I don't blame him for not wanting to let the word out… do you think he'll turn, Sister?"

Pomfrey sighed hopelessly. "There's no way to say. His brother didn't, but now with Miss Brown… we can't know with any certainty until the full. But he's… he's been running a fever all night."

"Typical, of a Feral's bite." His voice sounded bitter even to him. "He'll be fighting the virus, even if it isn't active…"

"Remus…" McGonagall's tone was uncertain. "I have already received several letters…"

"You don't need to tell me, Professor. I know. I know as well as they do." His throat stuck, but he forced the words out: "I should never have come here. I resign my position."

"I accept your resignation." Her very scent was filled with sadness and regret. "Remus, I'm so sorry… this is as much my fault as it is yours. I had hoped…"

"I know." He attempted a rueful smile, but it felt more like a grimace. "We've been a pair of fools, the two of us." He turned towards his wife. "Dora, I–"

"I've already packed," she said softly, sadly. "We'll leave as soon as you're able."

* * *

Breakfast Monday morning was a dismal affair, at least for Harry. He picked at his food listlessly, mind lost in worried thought. A glance across the table affirmed that Hermione and Ginny were equally despondent; Ginny stirred her blueberry oatmeal absently, staring into the mushed oats as if they held the secrets of the universe, and Hermione had abandoned even the pretext of eating, merely sitting in front of her empty plate and staring off into the distance, a thinly veiled expression of distress etched into her face. This didn't surprise Harry in the slightest, for he knew that Hermione was feeling not only worried as they were, but also drained and guilty.

Ron, of course, was nowhere to be seen. Harry supposed that he was still in the hospital wing, but he had no way to know for certain without checking the Marauder's Map; the three of them had sat through the better part of Saturday night and into Sunday morning at their unconscious friend's bedside but, after having returned from getting some breakfast at Madame Pomfrey's insistence, had been informed by the infirmarian that Ron had awoken from his fever-induced sleep and, in the few minutes he'd been conscious, had firmly demanded privacy and that his condition remain confidential. Despite their pleas, Madame Pomfrey had stuck to her guns, and so none of them had seen their friend for nearly a day and had no idea of his current state.

It was, Harry reflected grimly, a miracle that no one else had realized what had happened. He'd been sure at first that Malfoy, who unlike Brown was not technically an orderly and therefore not under magical medical law, would have spilled the secret to the rest of the school the first chance he had, but thankfully it seemed that the Slytherin had decided to keep quiet, at least for the time being. Luckier still, Neville, Seamus and Dean had been content to accept the excuse that Ron had been clawed up a bit during the attack and Madame Pomfrey was keeping him for observation, but if the Weasley started disappearing every full moon along with Lavender and Professor Lupin, people would be bound to notice. Harry didn't even know if his best mate _would_ be a werewolf; he'd asked Lavender about it the minute he'd had a chance, but she'd coolly replied that she wasn't allowed to discuss patient information, and that even if she had been, she wouldn't have had the slightest idea what he could expect.

"Harry? Harry, it's time for class."

He looked up to see Ginny's chocolate eyes looking back, and remembered absently that he had yet to bring up the very important matter of their engagement with her. He supposed that, had the situation been different, he would have been nervous about that, but at this point he couldn't spare much worry for his fiancé when all of it was being spent on her brother.

He followed the girls to the Defense classroom and took his ordinary seat, next to the distinctly empty chair Ron usually occupied. Lupin wasn't in yet; the class was abuzz with discussion over the Halloween attack. "Eh, Potter!" Ernie MacMillan called over, causing Harry to start and raise his head. "I heard you and Professor Lupin saved Edna Montgomery from a Feral werewolf! Is it true?"

Harry nodded, and received many gasps of admiration. "How _brave,"_ one of the younger Ravenclaw girls stage-whispered. Harry felt sick to his stomach at their praise; Ron had been just as brave, and yet no one was gushing over _him_ because no one could know.

The door opened from behind them and the class blinked in unison as Professor McGonagall strode into the room, waving her wand at the blackboard; the word _Animagi_ appeared in neat chalked cursive. "Wands away, books out, if you please!" she called tartly.

The students glanced about, surprised; as the others hurried to open their bags, Hermione raised her hand, momentarily distracted from her woes. McGonagall nodded. "Miss Granger?"

"Professor, where is Professor Lupin? Is he alright?"

McGonagall pursed her lips. "Professor Lupin resigned his position yesterday morning. I will be handling the defense classes until the school is able to hire another instructor."

Whispers burst throughout the classroom; Harry felt his heart jump into his throat. "Resigned?!" he demanded, not bothering to raise his hand. "What for?!"

"It's obvious, isn't it?" a voice sneered from the back of the classroom; Harry turned to see Blaise Zabini looking back at him with hard eyes. "The coward's running away because of what happened on Halloween!"

Harry stood and drew his wand. "Don't you call Remus a coward!"

"Mr. Potter, sit down!" McGonagall barked. Harry flushed and took his seat, still glaring at Zabini. "Five points from Gryffindor and Slytherin alike; Mr. Zabini, I would advise to you refrain from judgments on subjects you know nothing about." The Slytherin fumed, but didn't dare reply; McGonagall sighed and said firmly, "Professor Lupin's reasons for resigning are between the school and himself, and I will hear no more discussion about it in this classroom. Now, please turn your books to page two-twelve…"

As the students grudgingly opened their textbooks to the proper chapter, there came the sound of the door opening again; Harry glanced over his shoulder and sat up straight in surprise as Ron walked in, looking a bit tired but otherwise no worse for wear. He muttered an apology and handed McGonagall a note, before taking a seat as far away from Harry and the others as possible, not once looking to his friends.

"Thank you. Now, Miss Granger, if you could please read the first three paragraphs aloud for the class?"

The witch nodded distractedly, her eyes flicking back to her redheaded boyfriend, who was still resolutely avoiding their eyes. _"Chapter Four: Animagi and Metamorphagi_. Two types of advanced wizarding magic you may encounter in defensive situations are animagancy and metamorphagizing. An animagus is a wizard who has mastered _animagancy,_ a branch of self-transfiguration which allows him to take the full appearance of a mundane animal species; a metamorphagus, on the other hand, is a witch or wizard born with the power to change certain aspects of his or her human appearance…"

 _"Stop staring at him,"_ a voice hissed, so softly he nearly missed it; he glanced over to see Ginn _y_ concentrating very hard on writing down notes, but there was no doubt it was she who had spoken. Harry swallowed and began to write down McGonagall's lesson as well; Ginny was right, staring would only draw attention.

"…Because of magi-genetic principals, animagi are only able to take a single animal form. Moreover, specific peoples, including metamorphagi, werewolves and vampires, and wizards whose natural patroni are of magical rather than mundane creatures are not capable of becoming anamagi," Hermione concluded, looking up from the book.

"Very good, Miss Granger, thank you. Now, who can tell me one distinctive trait of an animagus in their animal form? Yes, Miss Lovegood."

"Animagi always have some mark in their animal form which reflects their human form," the Ravenclaw replied serenely, lowering her hand.

"Precisely; five points to Ravenclaw. Every animagi has a specific characteristic which is distinctive of their ordinary human form. For instance, I myself have a fur pattern reminiscent of spectacles," the professor continued, her glasses flashing in the light as she adjusted them. "Yes, Mr. MacMillan?"

"What about werewolves and vampires, Professor?" the Ravenclaw asked. Harry saw Ron's hand go still. "Do they have distinctive markings, as well?"

"Yes; being a form of forced animagancy, lycanthropy and vampirism share the same rules as the ordinary willed practice."

"Really? So what's yours?" Ernie said curiously, turning to Lavender; the witch turned bright pink and seemed to be doing her utmost to sink into the floor.

"Mr. MacMillan," McGonagall said sharply; the wizard looked back to the front of the room, surprised, and the headmistress continued: "It is considered very rude to ask an animagus their Mark; it's not something to be requested unless they themselves volunteer it."

"Oh. Sorry, I didn't know," Ernie told Lavender sincerely. The Gryffindor continued to blush and didn't reply.

The rest of the class continued on without much further disruption; McGonagall called several students up to the front to demonstrate how useful animagancy could be in a dueling situation, but as the rest of the class marveled at the fluid nature by which she could switch back and forth between tabby and teacher, Harry couldn't help but think of how this was one more goal Ron had that could be destroyed by the upcoming full moon. He wanted, _needed,_ to talk to his best mate– but Ron, unfortunately, was having none of it. The redhead had overnight become more studious than Harry had ever seen him, and even when the clock struck ten and the class was released, his plans to corner Ron and force him to talk were thwarted when McGonagall called out, "Mr. Weasley, a word with you before you go, if you please?"

Ron hurried up to the desk without a backwards glance to his friends; McGonagall caught them trying to loiter and gave them all a pointed look. "Potter, Granger, Miss Weasley; don't you all have somewhere to be?" and, guiltily, they were forced to leave.

Back in the classroom, Minerva McGonagall waved her wand at the door and cast a quick muffling charm, before turning to the young man at her desk. Ron was staring down at his wand, fiddling with the ash stave uncertainly. "Mr. Weasley," the headmistress said quietly, and the redhead looked up. "As your animagancy tutor and your current careers counselor, I think it may be prudent for us to have a quick discussion."

"You don't need to tell me, Professor; I already know the Ministry rules," Ronald said dully. "No werewolves allowed in the Corps."

"You must remember we don't know anything for certain yet. Your brother was fortunate–"

"Yeah, and Lavender wasn't. So the way I see it, I've got a fifty-fifty shot of my whole life going to shit," he retorted coldly, blue eyes blazing, but the headmistress knew that fear lay beneath the anger. She inclined her head.

"And I don't deny that. For that reason I think it may be wise for you to begin considering alternative career paths… nevertheless, we shall cross that bridge if we come to it. And whatever happens," she added sincerely, "I assure you that you will have the school's full support."

Ronald looked back for a long moment, surprised; then, his expression relaxed just slightly. "Thanks, Professor."

"There's nothing to thank, Mr. Weasley. Do have a good day."

"Yeah… you too." The redhead shouldered his bag and headed for the door, and then stopped. "…They're probably waiting for me out there, aren't they?" he said tiredly, turning back to her.

McGonagall nodded. "Probably."

"Professor… I really don't want to…"

She held up a hand. "Say no more. All the office fireplaces are connected; feel free to jump from that one into mine."

"Er– right, thanks."

He turned and hurried up the stairs. A moment before he could disappear into the office, McGonagall called, "Mr. Weasley?" Ron turned, and the professor said simply, "Your friends do care very deeply for you. Even if worst comes to worst, I doubt anything in the world could change that."

"…I know," the young man replied, and she suddenly realized how very old he looked. If it hadn't been for the slight sensory enhancements that came with being an animagus, she wouldn't have heard the whisper that followed:

 _"That's what I'm worried about."_

And before she could say another word, Ronald had vanished into the office.

* * *

Monday evening found Remus packing up his classroom alone, heavy of heart and filled with regret. He ought to have known better, the werewolf chastised himself. He ought never have gotten his hopes up, but just as before, he'd let his dreams get in the way of others' wellbeing. And this time, a student, one of his favorites no less, had paid the price for it.

Poor Ronald Weasley… Remus empathized with him in a certain way, just as he had often empathized with Peter Pettigrew. Surrounded by brilliant, famous, beloved friends; it was hard to come into one's own in that sort of an environment. And now… Remus grimaced. Now, it was just as likely as not that his selfishness had ruined the boy's future. There would be no auror robes for a werewolf; the Ministry had laws against hiring lycanthropes. Remus hadn't even gotten the chance to speak with him; Madame Pomfrey had put him under for the replacement of his new eyes and by the time he'd woken up, Ron had been released from the infirmary, and he hadn't come to see him since. The werewolf was almost glad for that; he hadn't the faintest idea of what he would have said to the young man if he'd had the chance.

His thoughts and hands stilled as the sound of footsteps came up the stone staircase behind him, and he breathed in through his nose. The familiar scent of broom lacquer and slightly spicy shampoo filled the air, and the ex-professor immediately closed his eyes in anticipated pain. He'd hoped to avoid this…

"So you're leaving again?" a voice accused.

Remus winced, and then drew on his courage and turned. Harry looked back at him, arms crossed, and the ex-professor sighed. "…Harry. I wasn't expecting to see you here. How's Ron?" he said quietly.

"Dunno. Haven't seen him since classes let out; we think he's hiding from us." It was clear from his stony green glare and cool tone that the younger wizard wasn't just talking about his redheaded friend. "You're leaving again?" he repeated. "Now? In the middle of term?"

"It's for the best," Remus murmured, though his eyes stung as he looked around the room. "Professor McGonagall will find another instructor–"

"Not like you! You're the only decent teacher any of us have had in years!" Harry gestured angrily to the empty desks. "Have you got any idea what it was like, sitting here with Umbridge prattling on about– about _theory_ and all that rot _,_ while out there Voldemort was picking people off, biding his time?! Or how bloody hard it was to learn anything with Professor Snape breathing down my neck?!"

"Harry–"

"And who's McGonagall gonna find at this time in the year, huh? Everyone still thinks the job is bloody cursed! Your leaving isn't going to help anything!"

"Harry – Harry, how could I do otherwise?" Remus said hoarsely, nearly pleading. "I've once again put everyone in this castle in danger, all for my selfishness… and this time, people got hurt, people I care about." He shook his head, full of self-loathing. "And what if I hadn't been fast enough, Harry? How could I have lived myself if Greyback had killed you before I got there? James's boy, my own brother's son? No… no, I have to go…" He turned back to packing his papers into his briefcase, unable to meet the young man's eyes a moment longer.

"…Please," Harry's voice sounded behind him, and Remus was stung by how very old it was now, compared to the last time the boy – no, the man, now– had begged him to stay. "Please, Remus, don't go. You're… you're all I have left of them."

The professor lost his breath for a moment; the words had hit him right where it hurt. He knew, _he knew_ he was failing James's son all over again, but what else could he do? Steeling his will, he sighed and turned around, shaking his head. "Believe me, Harry, I wish it could be different… I promise, I'll keep in touch…"

But Harry's face had already gone hard, green eyes blazing with that same fire Remus had seen so often in Lily's, all those years ago. "Don't bother," he said harshly, stepping back. "After all, I made it through thirteen years without you, didn't I? I'm sure I'll find a way to manage without you now– _Professor."_

And with that, James's boy turned on his heels and stalked out of the room, leaving a crushed Remus Lupin to stare after him in his wake.

* * *

 _"Colligo."_

The book flapped its pages lazily but remained stubbornly put. Tonks scowled and brandished her wand more fiercely. _"Colligo!_ Blast you, you stupid thing– _colligo! Pack!_ Get– in– the– effing–"

"I thought we were all ready?"

She turned, surprised, and then sighed ruefully as she saw her husband standing in the doorway. "We nearly are. All that's left is this stupid book; every time I touch the blasted thing it zaps me, and it just won't– _pack!"_ A bluish blast of energy from her wand threw itself at the leather-bound tome, only for the book to jump and flop back down on the hardwood.

Remus chuckled and walked forward, picking it up; Tonks gaped at him. "How did you do that? What is that thing, anyway?"

"My old journal. I had to enchant it so that the others couldn't get into it."

"Ooh, little Moony had a diary?" Dora teased, trying to grab it out of his hands; Remus laughed and held it above her head. "Aw c'mon, Remus, let me read it!"

"You sound like Sirius. He used to tease me mercilessly. I didn't even realize I still had this old thing…

He looked down at the journal fondly, and Dora pouted. "Don't you trust me?"

"Oh, of course. I just doubt you'd find it interesting– unless, of course, you enjoy the ramblings of a teenage werewolf mooning over his best mate's girl."

"I can picture it now. _Oh how I love you, Lily Evans; each day with you is like Heaven–"_

"It was a good rhyme," Remus said, slightly hurt. Dora laughed and pinched his cheeks.

"I'm just teasing, Love. I'll go get Teddy and shrink the crib." She patted his arm and disappeared into the other room. When she returned a few minutes later with a sleepy-eyed baby in her arms, she found her husband staring forlornly at the apartment from the doorway. "Well," she said quietly, joining him, "I suppose that's everything, then."

The two looked around together at the empty apartment. It looked bare and empty without Remus's books on the shelves and Dora's work robes thrown clumsily over the back of a chair. Dora let out a sad sigh and wrapped her arm around her husband's waist. "I'm so sorry, Love. I know how much you loved this job…"

"I should have known better," the werewolf said quietly, looking down at the sleeping baby in her arms. "Fenrir Greyback never forgets a grudge… especially not against a Lupin."

Dora nodded sadly, and, after taking one last look around the apartment, the pair left – one with the baby, the other with the trunk. Remus locked the door behind him and looked down at Teddy sadly. He had hoped this would be his son's home, that his boy would grow up running through these halls. Now he had no idea where 'home' even was.

They met McGonagall at the front gates, looking particularly solemn. Remus handed over his keys, and she sighed. "I had hoped that this would work out. Well, I suppose there's nothing for it; Remus, your arm."

The man acquiesced, and one suffocating wormhole-jump later, the trio found themselves standing in front of a church and small cottage on the edge of a small village.

"This way," McGonagall said, striding forward past the church. As they passed, Remus noted that the sign shimmered and changed, a third line adding to the first two:

 _Holy Redeemer Presbyterian Church_

 _Services: Sunday 10:30 A.M._

 _(Wizarding Services: Sunday 9:00 A.M.)_

The cottage turned out to be the clergy-house, windows blazing with light and walls surrounded by a slightly overgrown rose garden. McGonagall pressed her hand against the top of the gate, which glowed blue as it recognized her and swung open. Dora and Remus followed her up to the front door and waited as she knocked on the door.

A few seconds later Remus heard footsteps on the other side of the door, and then the lock was thrown and it opened. "Minnie!" a voice boomed, and a moment later the stiff-backed witch had been enveloped by a large redheaded man.

"Ach– _Malcolm–"_

The mammoth of a man laughed heartily and pulled away, turning to the pair. "Mr. and Mrs. Lupin. It's been too long."

"Reverend McGonagall," Remus greeted, extending his free hand; the man shook it, and then Dora's, before grinning down at the baby and ruffling Teddy's (for once) brown hair. "What a beautiful wee thing," he said fondly. "He'll grow up to be a strong one, just like his parents!" The stark opposite of his sister, Reverend Malcolm McGonagall was a jolly, good-tempered man who appeared the sort to be the life of every party. "Well come in, come in! Mary has the kettle on."

The inside of the clergy-house was warm and smelling faintly of baking pastries. Revd. McGonagall led them to a cozy sitting room, warmed by a merrily crackling fire. A moment later, a kindly graying woman came in holding a china tea set and a plate of freshly baked sugar biscuits. "Oh, Minerva," she said sadly, setting the platter down on the table and giving her sister-in-law a hug. "I heard from Malcolm– such _awful_ news–"

"Yes, well," Minerva cut in, casting a glance towards Remus; Mary got the hint and quickly invited them all to sit down, hastening to pour them all cups of tea.

"Reverend and Mrs. McGonagall, I want to thank you again for extending such incredible generosity to us," Remus said as he accepted his cup and a biscuit; Dora was trying to bottle-feed Teddy, who had awoken and started fussing at the unfamiliar smells and sounds. "I promise, we'll be gone within a few days–"

"It's our pleasure," Mary said firmly. "You stay as long as you need to."

"We really don't want to intrude–" Dora began, but Revd. McGonagall cut her off.

"Nonsense; we're happy to help. Besides, I've been looking for a strapping young man to do some work around the church for a few days; Remus here looks just the sort." The werewolf had to hide his surprised snort by taking a quick gulp of hot tea; no one had called him a 'strapping young man' in quite a while. "What do you say to helping an old preacher out, eh, boy?"

"It would be my honor, Sir," the ex-professor replied, clearing his throat as he set his cup down (the hot tea had burnt his tongue). "I'm sure I'll be able to handle most of it– there aren't many jobs I haven't worked, so–"

The reverend waved him off. "Oh, I didn't doubt you for a moment, Mr. Lupin. You're honest people, the both of you; I wouldn't have married the two of you if I didn't believe that."

After that the conversation flowed much more smoothly. After a half-hour or so Professor McGonagall said she had to return to the school, and so the preacher and his wife bid their sister goodbye. Before she left, the headmistress turned to Remus and looked him straight in the eyes.

"If you ever need anything," she said firmly, "Just give me a floo-call."

"I know, Professor."

"I mean it," McGonagall said, tone nearly threatening. "If I found out you've been living in some– some druglock's den of an apartment again–"

"When did I ever live in a druglock's apartment?"

"–Or whatever the muggle equivalent is – it's one thing on your own, Remus, but you've a wife and child now–"

"Professor," he cut her off, mildly embarrassed but also very grateful, "I promise, I would contact you long before I ever put Dora and Teddy in danger. Besides, we've got Dora's income from the Ministry now; we'll get by."

The witch pursed her lips, and then sighed and shook her head almost fondly. "You stubborn, wonderful boy… stay safe, Remus."

"And you, Professor."

McGonagall gave him a nod, and then turned and swept out of the front door. Remus closed it behind her and then returned to the sitting room, where Dora was in deep discussion with Mary McGonagall about household spells. "I just can't seem to get the charm to work. Every time I try to light the stove it's like a miniature Vesuvius!"

"Well it's really all about focusing your intention _,_ dear; you've got to think more _flame_ than _fire_ …"

Smiling slightly to himself, Remus asked Mary's permission to go see the guest room ("Oh, by all means, dearie! You needn't ask me!") and then slipped off down the darkened hallway.

The room at the end, he was surprised to find, was lit by a muggle electrical lamp on the bedside table. The room was relatively clean and empty, except for a small shelf hung on the wall on which sat a few old football trophies and a muggle photograph of a young man in his late twenties, dressed in British military uniform.

He heard the footsteps approach behind him and turned; Revd. McGonagall approached the doorway and nodded to the picture. "My boy, Andrew. That was taken a few years ago, before he was shipped out."

"Shipped out?"

"To Iraq. He's a squib, you see; followed his grandda's footsteps and joined the armed forces as a military chaplain. He's in Kuwait now… scares me half to death, but what can you do, eh?"

Remus nodded wordlessly, watching Dora bounce Teddy on her knee as she talked animatedly to Mary. He couldn't bear to imagine his son being in that much danger…

"Tell me honestly, Lupin; how's Minnie been doing?" Revd. McGonagall asked lowly, drawing him from his thoughts. "With all of this, I mean."

"I can't say," the man replied honestly. "She's…"

"Aye, I know. She's a tough bird, our Minnie; never seems to let anything crack her shell. But after what that bastard did to her husband…" Malcolm shook his head, face darkening. "I know the Good Lord says to love our enemies, but if Fenrir Greyback doesn't try my patience on that proverb more than anyone else I'll eat my boots."

The werewolf nodded again, lost in deep thought. For a moment the two men were silent, before Remus cleared his throat, turning to the preacher. "Professor McGonagall mentioned that you had a place where I could, ah…?"

"Ach, right, the full moon, I nearly forgot. Aye, there's an abandoned brewery not far from here that Urquart used to use. The building burnt down decades ago, but the cellar below is still in good shape."

"Any cellar that could hold Elphinstone Urquart can certainly hold me. Still, it'd be best if I checked it out before Wednesday evening…"

"You can go see it now, if you like. You can see it from the back of the cottage."

Although his stomach twisted with nervousness at the idea, Remus felt it would be rude to refuse considering the generosity he had been shown. He thanked Revd. McGonagall and went to offer the idea to Dora who, unfortunately, thought it a wonderful idea. "Besides, you always get claustrophobic on Wolf Days anyway, Love," she pointed, "Better now than later, eh?"

Remus "hmmed" noncommittally, and Marry added, "We can care for the little one for a few minutes while you look the place over."

"Thank you so much," Dora agreed, passing Teddy over; the baby gurgled and flashed his blue hair, clearly trusting this well-meaning near stranger. "Ah, he likes you!"

"Oh, what a beautiful boy," Mary cooed, bouncing him in her arms. "Aren't you a sweetheart, yes you are!"

Dora was still chuckling as they left the back door of the cottage. "Don't you just love how he reduces people to puddles?"

"Including you," Remus pointed out, trying to remain upbeat. Scouting out an unfamiliar enclosure always made him uncomfortable.

"And you!"

"Hmm… ah, there it is."

Dora squinted, peering across the moonlit moors. "I don't see it."

"It's just a few shadows… I can barely see it myself. Here, take my arm."

Dora did so, and Remus turned on the spot. A moment later they found themselves standing in front of the charred, skeletal remains of what appeared to have been a brewery. Dora whistled and instinctively drew her wand. "Creepy."

"Mm." Remus didn't elaborate, instead walking forward into the ruins, scanning the soot-blackened stones of the old floor. Cold wind whistled over the highland heath, cutting through his corduroy jacket like a knife.

"Remus," Dora's voice called to his left; he turned and saw her standing over what appeared to be a trapdoor. "I think this is it."

The werewolf approached carefully and knelt down, examining the door. It was clearly newer than the rest of the remains; the iron gleamed in the moonlight, and in any case Remus couldn't imagine why something so sturdy would be used to guard a cellar when wood would do just as well. The residual effects of strong enchantments made the hair on the back of his hand stand up straight as he reached for the handle.

Thankfully, the trapdoor wasn't locked; Remus pulled it open with ease and murmured a quick _lumos,_ illuminating a stone staircase leading down into the darkness. "This way," he murmured quietly to Dora and made his way down the steps, shining his wand-light against the stone walls. About halfway down he found a light-switch, but nothing turned on when he flicked it, so he continued down to the bottom.

One look at the old whiskey cellar was all that Remus needed to know it was suitable; the room was long and lined from floor to arched ceiling with hard stone. Evidence of previous use was everywhere: a large dog's bed lay in the far corner along with several moth-eaten blankets, and tucked next to the staircase was an old, sturdy trunk; a quick look inside revealed candles, more blankets, and a rather extensive first-aid kit. Large claw scratches covered the floor, along with stomach-churning reddish stains that Remus knew well had once been pools of blood.

"Merlin's beard," he heard a voice breathe, and he looked over to see Dora kneeling beside one of the old scratches along the walls, her eyes wide. "Look at the size of these… he must have been huge."

"He was," Remus agreed, walking over; a sharp pang twisted his heart as he recalled the jovial, kindhearted man. "Even in his human form, I wouldn't have wanted to go a round with him."

"Did you ever see him? Transformed, I mean."

"Just once. Dumbledore sent us out on mission, shortly after the Wolfsbane potion was first developed… let's just say that particular assignment didn't end well. But if any Tame could have stood a chance against Greyback, it was Elphinstone Urquart."

They both fell quiet at that, lost in thought. At last, it was Dora who broke the silence. "…I promise you, Remus, we're going to catch him," she vowed. "We're going to catch that bastard, and when we do, I will make him pay, for what he did to you and to so many others."

"You mustn't talk like that," her husband sighed tiredly. "Vengeance, bitterness, it doesn't solve anything, Dora. It just perpetuates the cycle."

"Maybe. But I still want him to pay." She gripped his shoulder tightly, and Remus looked over, eyes shining in the cold light from his wand. "For what he did to that brave man, Remus, and what he did to that innocent little boy in Llanbedrog, I want him to pay– even if you don't."

Her hand dropped from his shoulder to just above his heart, where the old wound lay beneath his clothes, hidden but never fully healed. Remus fought back an insane desire to run and closed his eyes.

And if Dora felt his hand tremble when he gripped it tightly around her own, well, she didn't breathe a word.

* * *

Lavender Brown was not a happy werewolf.

To be fair, the day two before the full moon (which, she had learned from Sr. Anne, was commonly called _Wolf Day_ by her kind) tended to set any lycanthrope a little on edge. She was hungry _all_ the time, the castle seemed to have shrunk to half its normal size, and even the dweebiest boys seemed to have become almost magnetically attractive overnight, at least to her moon-addled brain. It was only after she caught herself staring dreamily after _Justin Finch-Fletchy_ , of all people, that she managed to get a firm hold over her wildly shifting emotions, choosing instead to bury herself in her schoolwork as best she could to distract herself. On top of it all she had gotten at least three Howlers since Saturday evening, and, to her great dismay but not surprise, Professor Lupin had resigned in the wake of the horror his presence had brought upon the village. Something akin to loneliness had accompanied the teacher's leaving; though she understood his reasons, Lavender couldn't help but feel utterly abandoned, as if she were the only one of her kind left in the whole world.

These issues would have been reason enough for her less-than-content mood that Tuesday afternoon, but Lavender Brown's irritation had not been caused by absentee professors or mood-swings or even nasty letters; no, Lavender Brown's problem was of quite a different nature, and belonged to one particularly stubborn redhead.

It had all begun the night previous. She, Ginny and Parvati had been studying for a charms quiz (Lavender perpetually snacking on some strange muggle snack consisting of dried meat strips, which Hermione had called "bitlong") when the door suddenly burst open and none other than the frizzy-haired witch herself raged inside, face red and tear-streaked. Hermione threw herself down on her bed face-first and didn't speak.

Surprised, the three girls glanced around at each other. "Er– Hermione, are you alright?" Ginny questioned nervously.

The witch sat up, an expression of such wrath and desolation on her face that the others immediately scooted back on their beds, a bit intimidated. "That– that utter _prat!"_ Hermione cried furiously.

"Ron?" Parvati said in surprise. Lavender and Ginny shared a wary look.

 _"Yes!_ He won't talk to me, he keeps avoiding me– Merlin, he won't even _look_ at me!" She leapt to her feet and began to pace, still ranting. "I've tried everything! I even asked him about the bloody Chudley Cannons to get him talking, but he just brushed me off and disappeared again! And now Harry says he hasn't even come back to the dorm! That bloody idiot– what's wrong with him?!" she demanded, rounding on Ginny fiercely. The younger Weasley gaped unresponsively, and Hermione let out a noise of frustration, throwing her hands up into the air. If they hadn't known the extent of her distress before it became clear in that moment as rust-colored sparks began to swirl around her like a swarm of hornets.

"Hermione– Hermione, calm down," Lavender advised carefully, standing up and walking over to the witch.

"Oh, like you're to talk!" the brunette shrieked, the russet magic crackling ominously. "Who sat up crying over him for weeks after you broke up?! Who followed him around like a sick puppy for three bloody months?!"

"Hermione, that's uncalled for," Parvati reproved sharply. The witch looked ready to round on her, too, before perhaps the most worrisome thing of all happened: Hermione seemed to deflate from the inside out, crumpling in on herself as she buried her head in her hands, and began to cry.

"Oh, Hermione…" Quite forgetting the insults she'd just received, Lavender pulled the other witch into a hug as Hermione dissolved entirely, weeping into her shoulder.

"I-I'm s-sorry," she choked out between the sobs, "I j-just– I d-don't know what to do! I love him so m-m-much… I j-just want to help…"

Worried that the hysterical girl would reveal too much (granted, Parvati was the only one still in the dark, but Lavender thought Ron would still prefer it remain that way), the blonde gently patted her friend on the back, murmuring comforting words. Ginny and Parvati joined in, helping guide her over to the bed. When at last they'd managed to get some hot cocoa into the girl and Hermione was drying her eyes with a tissue, Lavender said, "I know this must be hard, Hermione. But I'm sure that– _whatever the reason–"_ she gave the girl a very pointed look, and Hermione nodded tearfully to show she understood, "I'm sure Ron will come around."

Hermione looked doubtful of this, but, seemingly worn out from the force of her exasperation, she nodded tiredly and let out a shaky sigh. Seeing her friend, this paragon of self-assurance, crumble before her eyes, Lavender made herself a promise: Ron _would_ come around– even if she had to knock the sense back into the boy herself.

* * *

And that was what had Lavender Brown, in all of her mixed pre-moon werewolf and teenage girl irritation, stalking emphatically down the staircase towards the kitchens.

It was no secret to her that her short romance with Ronald Weasley had not included a lot of, er, stimulating conversation. Upon reflecting honestly on the relationship, Lavender could admit that it had been doomed from the start; if there was one thing she knew from her parents, it was that true love was built on friendship, not on incessant snogging. But in their rare moments of genuine personal connection, Lavender had learned a few interesting tidbits about Ron. He hated corned beef. He'd always wanted to learn how to drive a muggle car. And, most importantly, whenever he needed a break from his friends or the rest of the school, he liked to pop down to the warmest, most comforting place in all of Hogwarts, the place he felt the most at home: the school kitchens. Even after the end of their relationship, Lavender had kept this information to herself, honored even after it all that he had deemed her trustworthy enough to share something so personal with her.

And now, she was determined to put it to good use. Coming to a stop in front of the portrait of the bowl of fruit, she shouldered her schoolbag purposefully. Lavender Brown wasn't good at everything, but if there was one thing she excelled at, it was getting people to do what she wanted.

A gust of warm, savory-smelling air greeted her as she stepped through the portrait hole. The kitchen was, as usual, filled with busy house-elves hard at work, calling out cheerfully to one another and laughing in their high, squeaky voices. Lavender smiled; she had always respected Hogwarts for treating its house-elves well, and it was clear that the policy had not changed following the war.* "Hello, Miss Brown!" one of them piped as she hurried over. "What cans we do for you, Miss?"

"Oh, I'm alright; thank you. I'm actually looking for someone…" She glanced over to the far table which corresponded with the Gryffindor house table on the floors above and saw a redheaded figure hunched over, hard at work on an essay. The house-elf followed her gaze and nodded sagely.

"The young Mr. Weasley is not well, Miss. He is very sad, does not talk, does not eat! Perhaps Miss Brown can help?"

"I hope so. Thank you, er…?"

"Piper, Miss."

"Thank you, Piper. Have a good day."

"And you, Miss."

As the house-elf went back to her work, Lavender walked over to the table. Ron didn't notice her until she put her hands on her hips and demanded outright: "Why are you avoiding Hermione?"

The redhead jumped and looked over. After a moment he relaxed. "Oh. Lavender, it's you."

"Why are you avoiding Hermione?" she asked again, raising an eyebrow.

"Not exactly your business, is it?" he shot back coolly.

"It is when your girlfriend breaks down crying in my dorm room." Ron's face turned guilty, and he looked away.

"…I wasn't trying to make her cry…"

"Well, you did," Lavender snipped. Ron sighed.

"Look, Lavender–"

"No, shut up," she said fiercely, crossing her arms; the boy blinked in surprise. "Have you got _any idea_ how stupid you're being? Do you really think avoiding your friends is going to make things any better?"

"Look, I'm not avoiding them for laughs," Ron argued back, standing up and folding his arms as well. "It's been hard on me, too."

"Then why?! Why are you being such an idiot?! I know you, Ronald Weasley; you can be thick as a brick wall sometimes, but you're not stupid." When he didn't answer, she softened slightly. "I know how hard this must be. But shutting people out isn't going to help… you can take it from me."

Ron glared at her for another long moment, and then, like a dam giving way, he sighed and slumped back onto the bench. "…Lav, what else am I supposed to do?" he asked heavily. "Hermione is… she's something special, you know? She's got _dreams;_ she wants to be Minister of Magic, to change the world! And she could do it, too." He shook his head with a pained expression and closed his eyes. "I can't get in the way of that. And you and I both know that if I am… well, if I am like you, that I'd just be holding her back."

"Maybe she doesn't care," Lavender asserted fiercely.

"I know she doesn't care. And that's the whole problem. She doesn't understand how far back that fear goes, how hard it is for people to see past…"

"Past all of this," the girl finished for him, and he looked up, blue eyes meeting gold, freckles facing scars, and nodded. "Ron… I'm not saying you're wrong. And I'm not saying that if tomorrow doesn't go as you hope, then things aren't going to become very difficult for you… the way they have for me." He glanced away again, so she sat down, reached across the table and took both of his hands in hers, forcing him to meet her gaze. "All I'm saying," Lavender told him sincerely, "is that if I had a chance to have with someone what you've got with Hermione, I wouldn't take it for granted."

Ron stared at her for a long moment, and then sighed again and nodded. "You're right. I know you're right. But…"

Lavender squeezed his hands and let go. "Just talk to her. Give it a chance. You at least owe her that much."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know…"

She saw the guilt in his face, and smiled slightly. "…You really do love her, don't you?"

"I really do," said Ron honestly. "I'd do anything for her."

The blonde smiled a little more and stood. "You're a good man, Ron Weasley," she said, with a hint of pride. "I hope it all works out." She headed for the door.

"Lavender," the redhead called suddenly, and she glanced back. Ron hesitated a moment, and then said, "I hope you find them. That person for you, I mean. You deserve it."

He watched as Lavender's smile turned a bit sad, and she inclined her head. "Thank you, Ron," she replied, before leaving the kitchens without another word.

* * *

The moon gleamed swollen and bright down through the windows of the guest room, and Remus rolled over in the bed with a sigh. It was impossible to get comfortable; the sheer amount of energy buzzing through his nerves kept him wide awake, a fact which he knew he would regret come morning. Dora was sleeping peacefully beside him, a lock of brown hair fluttering every time she breathed out, and, although her scent and warmth were more comforting to him than any blanket or cup of tea ever could be, being so close to her on Wolf Night was not helping his restlessness in the slightest.

He was just about to give up and go find a book to read when a sudden snuffling caught his attention, and he froze, looking to the blanket-filled basket next to the bed which was serving for Teddy's makeshift crib. The noise came again, and then– Remus let out a sigh and looked skywards, like Job demanding an answer– an angry squalling broke the air.

Dora immediately shot up in bed, looking around wildly, and then let out a low groan as she collapsed into the cushions. "Bloody basilisks. And I thought we'd just gotten him sleeping through the night…"

"It's because it's Wolf Night," Remus said wearily, sitting up. "I can't relax either."

"Oh love, let me take him, you need your rest–"

"I'm not sleeping anyway; I may as well. Go back to bed, Dora."

She gave him a dubious look, but apparently the prospect of sweet sleep was enough to convince her, because she curled back under the covers again and watch through half-closed eyes as he picked their son up from the basket and held him close. Teddy's angry wailing muffled to pitiful whimpers, and the werewolf deemed it safe to carry his cub out into the rest of the house. He kissed Dora on the head, left the bedroom and shut the door behind him, bouncing Teddy in his arms all the while.

There was a large, old rocking chair in the sitting room beside a wide window, bathed in the pale moonlight; Remus sat down there, rocking softly back and forth as Teddy sniffled and buried his face in his father's shirt. "I know," Remus murmured soothingly, "I know, it's not fun. I'm sorry, Teddy; I wish I could make this go away for you…" He thought back to all the times his mother had held him as a young boy, rocking back and forth, singing softly to him as he cried into her shoulder. Teddy let out another whimper, and Remus, rubbing his back and smoothing the baby's now-grey fine hair, instinctively began to murmur the old song, changing it to fit as he went along. _"_ _Huna blentyn yn fy frest, clyd a chynnes ydyw hon… Breichiau tad sy'n dyn am danat, cariad tad sy dan fy mron… Ni cha dim amharu'th gyntun ni wna undyn â thi gam. Huna'n dawel, anwyl blentyn; huna'n fwyn ar calon dy tad…"_

Teddy let out little sigh as the last note rumbled inside his father's chest, and then closed his eyes and drifted off. Remus smiled down at him, a bittersweet feeling in his heart.

"I've never heard that one before."

He looked up, surprised, and saw Dora looking back at him. "Oh. Dora, I didn't know you were there…"

"I could tell." She smiled slightly and repeated, "I've never heard that one before. Why don't you ever sing it?"

Remus shrugged, a bit self-conscious. "It was my mam's."

Dora's mouth opened into a little _"oh,"_ and Remus looked away, embarrassed and ashamed. He had only spoken once to Dora about his mother's death, and once had been enough; after hearing the whole story she seemed to have understood that it was not something he enjoyed thinking about.

"Well… I think it's lovely," Dora said softly, and Remus looked over in surprise. "And I think your mum would think so, too."

Despite himself, Remus managed a small smile, before it faded as he looked down at the sleeping baby in his arms. Dora frowned, seeing the dark cloud come over him, and walked over. "Give 'im here," she ordered firmly.

Remus was confused for a moment but did as told, until his wife, baby in arms, sat down on his lap and curled up in the rocking chair with him, shrinking her height a little to fit. Her husband raised an eyebrow. "There is no way that is comfortable," he deadpanned.

"Hush. You're warm and I want my baby." Remus chuckled slightly in defeat and wrapped his arms around his clumsy wife, who would indubitably tip too far forward and fall out of the chair, baby in tow. For a while they sat there together, just enjoying each other's company, before Dora let out a little sigh through her nose and looked up at him. "You wanna talk about it?" she asked quietly.

Remus shrugged. For a few moments he didn't answer, and when he did his voice was very quiet. "I'm so sorry, Dora. I know how much you wanted to be able to be at home, to raise Teddy…"

"Remus, this was not your fault," his wife insisted, sitting up a little straighter on his lap so that she could look him in the eyes; Remus was decisively avoiding her gaze. "You know that; you can't blame yourself."

"Can't I?" he said bitterly. "What kind of a father am I, Dora, what kind of a husband? I can't provide for you, I can't even put a roof over my family's head…"

"You are a great father and a wonderful husband," Dora said firmly. "This is just a bump in the road, Remus; you can't let it make you doubt yourself."

He sighed and nodded, kissing her hair, but Dora could see that he was still being consumed by self-loathing. So, instead of trying to argue it, she curled up against his chest, holding Teddy close to her own, and closed her eyes. "I trust you, Remus," she murmured, but she knew he could hear her because his arms tightened around her ever so slightly. "You've always protected us and kept us safe. I trusted you back during the war and I trust you now. And that's why I'm not scared, because I know that we can figure this out– _together."_

Remus didn't reply, but she felt him relax beneath her, and Dora smiled before letting herself fade away into sleep once more. But Remus sat awake for a long while after that, thinking late into the night, until in the wee small hours of the morning he, too, drifted off, his small family guarded carefully in his arms.

* * *

The halls of Hogwarts were empty and silent, save for the footsteps echoing in the corridors. It was very late at night; the torchlight flickering over the stone and casting his triad of shadows along the wall was the only source of light, and the world beyond any window he encountered was pitch-black. Draco walked through them without any hurry; if he had a destination in mind he couldn't remember it, and every corner he took seemed to lead him into another identical hallway. How many turns he had already taken he couldn't remember; where he was, he didn't think to discern. He rounded another corner absently, thinking of nothing…

Then, quite suddenly, his feet came to a halt as a strange noise met his ears. Draco stopped short and listened, his heart in his throat. Silence. Silence, and then–

There! The noise came again, and he knew it without a question: a pathetic, pitiful, gasping squall, the sound of some tiny creature desperately struggling for breath. The baby's cry came again, fainter this time, and yet closer; it seemed to be just around the end of the corridor.

Without hesitation he took off running, but when he reached the end of the hall the noise now seemed to be coming from the corner of the new passageway on his right. His breath panted heavy, his heart thundered; the baby's cries were growing weaker, but no matter how far or how fast he ran they seemed always just ahead, always just around the next corner–

He skidded to a halt as he reached a four-way crossing, identical stone halls on either side, the feeble wails echoing from every direction. Draco spun in a circle, desperate, nearly in tears–

Draco froze as his blood turned to ice. A trail of water led down the hall directly in front of him, fading off into the darkness. He stared at it, the torchlight shining on the water.

It was then that he noticed that the squalling had stopped.

 _"No,"_ he gasped, and bolted off down the darkened hallway. A light was shining at the end, growing brighter and brighter still, cold and white–

He burst into the light and came to a skittering halt. The main hall of Malfoy Manor was ablaze with white-grey light from the lamps, gleaming off the marble in a cold, dead chill. The water led in a trail to a puddle in the middle of the hall, and there in the center, the hem of her suggestive black robes soaked with the water, stood his aunt with a fishbowl in hand.

Bellatrix smiled. "Hello, Draco."

Draco gaped. A small fish – coral scales, pale pink fins, almost translucent and silky– swam to and fro in the water. Draco's breath caught, and she looked down. "Pretty creature, isn't it? Hello, fishy, fishy!" She sloshed the water around so that some of it spilled out of the bowl and fell, glittering, to the floor.

"Aunt Bella–" Draco pleaded, but she ignored him.

"Yes, it's a pretty thing, isn't it? Life." She eyed the bowl, and then smiled cruelly and lifted it high above her head. "But so _very_ fragile."

"No," he gasped, stretching out a hand, "Aunt Bella– please–"

The mad witch let out a screeching cackle, throwing her head back, black curls bouncing. The bowl slipped.

"NO!"

 _CRASH!_

* * *

Draco shot straight up in bed, gasping for air. For a moment he was totally disoriented, uncertain where he was , but then he caught sight of the green curtains and duvet, and he realized that he had been dreaming. For several seconds he sat there, just breathing… and then the shudders came, the silent repressed sobs that shook his whole frame. He grabbed his pillow and bit hard into the corner to choke down the screams rising like nausea in his throat, rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth…

…In time the grief wore itself out even if the self-disgust did not, and the man was left there alone in the darkness, with nothing but his exhaustion and the heavy weight on his chest that would not lift. Draco wiped his eyes furiously and pushed the covers away. He couldn't stay here. He had to get out, to move, to run away from the memories he couldn't forget. There was, he reflected savagely as he got out of bed, threw on his green dressing-robe and slippers and left the dormitory, a certain irony in his reversal of fortune: as a child he had never feared the dark, but now that he'd filled it with his own demons, the night and the silence was more terrifying than he would ever dare to admit.

He slipped out of the common room and into the dungeon hallways, climbing up the twisting staircase to the floors above. The moon shone clear and white through the windows, and he passed no one as he walked aimlessly. It was as if the whole castle, and indeed the whole world, had been utterly abandoned.

As he walked, he did his best not to think, but it was useless. His thoughts ran in a vicious circle, from the faces of the victims he'd helped burn behind the manor to the conversation he'd had with Lupin, the only person who had still believed in him. Draco wasn't even sure he believed in himself, and now that the professor was gone his doubts were sweeping back in. _Pathetic,_ he chastised himself coldly, _pathetic, that you need his affirmation to give you any sense of meaning… pathetic, that you'd even ask for it, when you know what you've done, who you are: a coward…_

So lost in thought was he that he didn't even recognize the sound of footsteps until it was too late. He rounded the corner and just barely managed to stop short as a silhouette appeared in front of him. The other figure, however, did not, colliding headfirst into him and nearly knocking them both to the floor. Draco managed to steady himself, holding the girl- he could tell even in the dark that it was a girl- upright by the shoulders. "Watch where you're going!" he snapped in a whisper.

"I could say the same to you!" her voice hissed back.

Both paused, squinting in the darkness. "Brown?" Draco said, surprised.

"Malfoy?" He heard her murmur a low _lumos,_ and found a pair of gold eyes framed by messy blond curls looking back at him. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

He froze for a moment, panicking as he recalled his nightmare. He was sure she knew exactly what he was thinking, but managed to pull off an almost nonchalant, "I couldn't sleep. And yourself?"

The Gryffindor hesitated, and then said primly, "…I fancied a walk."

"At three in the morning?" She glared at him, and he turned to go, irritated. "Fine, it's none of my business. I'm sure the castle is big enough for the both of us, so if you'll excuse me-"

"Wait!" He blinked, startled, and glanced over his shoulder. Brown bit her lip, suddenly nervous. "Please, why don't we walk together? It's eerie out here at night; I- I don't like being alone."

"Go back to your common room, then," he said pitilessly, and made to leave again.

"I can't! I have to walk around. It's…" She hesitated, and then admitted, "Tomorrow's the full. The moon's making me restless and I feel like if I don't keep moving, I'll just scream!"

"Well don't do that; you'll wake half the castle and get us both in trouble," he said, annoyed. She gave him a pleading look, and he sighed. "Oh, Merlin… _fine,_ I'll walk with you to the end of the charms corridor. Would that make you feel better?"

"Much," she agreed fervently. He snorted and rolled his eyes, but took the lead down the stone hallway. Sneaking a glance over at her, he was pleased to find that the ordinarily well-kept young lady looked remarkably unkempt; dressed in a pale pink nightgown and fluffy house slippers of the same shade, her usual proper appearance was upset by the fact that her blonde ringlets seemed to have gone haywire, twisting and falling into her face as if she'd been tossing and turning. She looked slightly too pale, as well, and the faintest hint of shadowy bruises had appeared under her eyes, as if she were beginning to fall ill.

As they walked, he added, "This is just a bit pathetic, you know. You dueled death eaters, learned healing under the Carrows' noses and turn into a giant wolf once a month, but you're afraid of the dark?"

"I'm not afraid of the dark!" she scoffed, affronted. "I just… don't like big, empty castles."

"Right. Then you wouldn't mind putting out that light?"

"Not really, no." She waved her wand, and the corridor was cast into shadows and darkness, split here and there by shafts of pearly moonlight through the windows. "I see better than you do in the dark, anyway."

"And how would you know that?"

"I see far better than I did before," she replied simply, as they turned the corner. "And mind that suit of armor."

He stopped short and realized he'd been about to run headlong into the metal figure. Scowling, he sidestepped and muttered, "Lucky coincidence."

"Oh, certainly."

"You didn't stop when you ran into me, did you?"

He heard her huff, and smirked a tad. They paced a few more steps in silence, and then he said idly, "Why didn't you ask your boyfriend to come with you, if you don't like walking alone?"

"My boyfriend?"

"Whichever one you're on right now."

She didn't reply; startled, he glanced over. Brown was staring at the ground. "What, haven't you got one?" he questioned, more out of genuine surprise than scorn.

"It's none of your business!" she hissed, stalking forward. He debated running after her, and in the end decided he'd made enough enemies recently and really couldn't afford to lose the one acquaintance he still had.

"Brown- oy, Brown, wait up!" She stopped, her hands curled tightly and lips pursed, and he hurried forward. "Look, I- I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"No, you shouldn't have!" she snipped dramatically, and then her fire faded. "…I-I'm sorry, too… you were just asking a question…"

"Well, I could've been a bit more sensitive," he replied generously, and then noticed that there were tears in her eyes. "Merlin, Brown, you're really upset, aren't you?"

"Not at you," she sighed, pacing a few steps away to a window at the end of the corridor. The near-full moon was shining brightly over the grounds, and she leaned her elbows against the sill, looking up at it with a wistful expression. Hesitantly, Draco joined her.

"…It's awfully pretty, isn't it?" she mumbled. "I always thought so, anyway." She blinked; a few more tears fell down her cheeks, and she wiped at them with the sleeve of her nightdress, embarrassed. "I just- just can't believe how _stupid_ I was."

Draco nodded but didn't reply. He knew full well how that felt.

"I thought I had to chase after boys to make them like me," she said, laughing a bit sadly. "I didn't realize how lucky I was, and now– well, look at me." She tilted her face towards him, scars pale in the too-bright moonlight, and smiled ruefully. "What boy wants to take a vicious monster to Hogsmead, right?" She turned back to the glass, smile falling, gold eyes fixed on the moon.

"…Well, for what it counts," Draco said hesitantly, "I've met my fair share of vicious monsters, and I don't think you're one of them."

She glanced over, surprised. "Really?"

"Really." He shuddered slightly. "Trust me, Brown, after getting on first-name terms with people like Greyback or my aunt… you're not scary in the slightest."

Her eyes were shining again, and he wondered if he'd said the wrong thing, mentioning the sadistic werewolf, but instead of bursting into tears, the girl said stuffily, "Th-thank you, Malfoy. That's so n-nice of you to say…"

"Don't start crying again," he ordered uncomfortably. "Don't."

"R-right. Sorry." She mopped at her eyes and smiled. He caught a brief glimpse of her too-long canines glinting in the moonlight, but decided that he didn't mind; really, she had quite a nice smile.

"Alright, where to next?" he said, with a mischievous smirk of his own. "We have the whole castle to see, after all."

"Oh, that's alright; you don't have to stay up with me if you don't want," she reassured him. "I'm not nearly so frightened anymore."

"Don't be silly; I came out here on my own, didn't I? What do you say we go up to the astronomy tower and have the house-elves bring us some hot chocolate?"

She giggled. "Actually, that sounds quite nice." He gestured down the hall, and they set off again, now speaking in much more cheerful tones. When at last they reached the open-aired astronomy tower, Draco called for one of the house elves, who took his order and returned a few minutes later with blankets and a steaming pot of hot chocolate.

"Won't they tell Professor McGonagall we're out of bed?" Brown mused, as the elf disappeared again with a _crack!_

"I don't think so. They never have on me, anyway."

"Oh." She took a sip of her hot cocoa and let out a sigh. "Delicious. The food here is always so good…"

"Well, it's their job. My house-elf taught me to cook," Draco mentioned, wrapping himself in a fluffy emerald blanket (Brown's was dark red).*

"Did he really?"

"Mm. When my parents were out of the house on business and I couldn't find anything else to do, I'd watch him make dinner. Sometimes I'd even have him let me help." He rolled his eyes. "Of course my parents thought it was beneath me, but I quite liked it."

"It's a bit like potions, isn't it?" she mused. "Cooking, that is."

"A bit, yes. I suppose those with a talent in one tend to have a talent in the other." He eyed her curiously. "You're rather adept at potions, aren't you?"

She shrugged. "I'm not awful."

"Come of it; I've seen you work. What'd you get in your O.W.L.?" When she flushed and didn't answer, he added, "Oh, go on!"

"…I scored an Outstanding," she admitted. "It's the one class I'm any good at, aside from Divination."

"Why do you do that?" he questioned, frowning.

"What?"

"Play dumb. I mean, I always knew you were a bit silly-"

 _"You're_ polite-"

"But you're not stupid." He looked at her pointedly, straight in her brilliant gold eyes. "I took potions with you for five years; you're quite as good as Granger and I, but you always underperformed. Obviously you were doing it intentionally; why?"

She shrugged her shoulders, looking away. "Boys don't like getting shown up. Why do you think Granger doesn't get asked out?"

"Didn't she go to the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum?"

Brown waved her hand impatiently. "Details. My point is, the quickest way to lose a date is by being a know-it-all, especially in a class like potions."

"A class like…?"

"Well, being a potions-brewer isn't a very attractive skill," she explained matter-of-factly. "Not like charms, because everyone thinks it's cute for a girl to be good at charms, but sweating over a cauldron with the fumes frizzing your hair– it's not exactly a nice image, is it?" She self-consciously tucked an unruly lock of blonde hair behind her ear.

Draco stared. "…You really considered _all of that_ when it came to getting blokes to fancy you?"

"I'm not saying I'm proud of it," she admitted. "But yes, I did… I just wish I had realized sooner how silly it all was."

"Yes, well… better late than never, I suppose," he offered. She smiled and nodded, and he gestured to the kettle of cocoa. "We should drink that, before it goes cold."

"Good idea."

As he poured them each a mug, Draco decided it was time to move on to more pleasant conversation. "So, speaking of potions, any chance you'll be focusing in that for your thesis?"

"I wanted to," she sighed. "Trouble is, I can't make the potion I was intending on doing."

"Why not?"

"I'm allergic to half the ingredients," she replied ironically. "Aconite, powdered silver, moonstone…"

"You were going to make Wolfsbane," Draco inferred, surprised.

"I wanted to learn to brew it myself. Half the expense comes from it being so difficult to prepare, but seeing as I can't be anywhere near aconite without coming over in a dead faint…" She shrugged, taking a sip from her mug. "I wanted to see if it could be improved on, too, but you need real talent in alchemy to mess with potions, and I don't know the first thing about that."

"Pity; if you could pull that off, you'd have a place at St. Mungo's labs for sure–" He stopped suddenly. Somewhere inside his mind, a little snake of ambition raised its head and tasted the air. "Blimey, that's it."

"What's it?"

"I know alchemy and can handle the materials. You excel at potions. We could work together."

She eyed him curiously. "Don't you think your house-mates might disapprove?"

"My house-mates already hate me," he said, rolling his eyes. "They consider me the latest blood-traitor."

"You'd be helping a werewolf," she pointed out. "It'd be like confirmation for them."

"Let it be; I can't stand the lot of them anymore. Were we always that gloomy?"

"Quite." He grimaced, and she giggled. "But you're not so bad on your own."

He chuckled. "Neither are you."

"Well, thank you." She raised her mug. "To good luck, then."

"To good luck– and good talent." They clinked their mugs together and took a last warm draught, before Lavender set her mug down on the cold stone and stretched, yawning.

"You know, I think I could sleep now," she commented, a little surprised. "Maybe it was the hot cocoa?"

"Possibly. Shall we walk back?"

"That'd be nice." She waited as he called back the house-elf, who whisked away the empty mugs, kettle and blankets, before they started down the stairs into the warm castle below. When they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady (Brown had seemed surprised to find he knew exactly where the Gryffindor common room was located, to which he had replied that it wasn't exactly difficult to figure out), she smiled and said, "You know, you're not so awful when you leave off acting like royalty and all that."

"Neither are you, when you're not giggling like five-year-old." She, naturally, giggled, and he smirked. "Well… good evening, Brown."

"Goodnight."

He nodded and began to make his way down the hall. On impulse, he turned and glanced back. "Oy- Brown!"

She glanced over, surprised. "Hm?"

His heart was suddenly pounding, and though he didn't quite know why, he found himself saying, "This weekend. I was wondering- would you like to go to Hogsmead? As friends, that is," he added. "Of course, if you don't want to-"

"No, I- I'd like that," Brown said, turning a bit red.

"Right." He could tell he was blushing, as well, and cursed his pale features; why couldn't he have had the Black looks like his mother? "Well- er- good evening. Again."

She nodded, looking a tad breathless, and he turned on his heels, walking as quickly as he could manage back without running. His mind was whirling at impossible speeds. Had he really just asked Brown, of all people, to accompany him to Hogsmead? Brown, a Gryffindor, a giggling flirt, only now she wasn't, and a werewolf at that– oh, people were going to _talk,_ his father was bound to hear about this…

He'd been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he almost didn't realize he'd stopped in front of the wall hiding the passageway into the Slytherin common room. Murmuring the password _("Ambition,"),_ he slipped inside and walked anxiously up to his dormitory, where he nearly threw himself upon the bed, drawing his curtains closed with fervor. As before, he was entirely unable to fall back asleep, but now for an entirely different reason.

Brown. Merlin, why was his heart _pounding_ like that? Brown, a girl he'd known since he was eleven but had rarely spoken to, an enemy by house and now by blood, someone he'd always considered a bit of a fool, or at least a simpering under-achiever. His father would be horrified, his mother dismayed… but surely, he had this all wrong, surely he, son of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black and heir of the Eternally Pure Malfoy Line, was not about to fancy a _werewolf–_

…But somehow, even that word, once a term of scorn and disgust, no longer seemed to imply anything more than the victim of an unfortunate disease. He knew, in his heart, that his whole understanding had been mistaken. Brown was not like the stereotype he knew; for Merlin's sake, Professor Lupin, family by marriage whether his parents liked it or not, was the very antithesis of everything the bloodthirsty Greyback had claimed to represent! And hadn't Draco himself, not half an hour prior, cheerfully resigned himself to the label of blood-traitor, laughing at his own former gloom and doom?

And now he was going to Hogsmead with her. Brown.

She was a werewolf. (And her eyes were _stunning)._

His father was sure to hear about this. (But maybe, just maybe, Lucius wouldn't find out?)

People were going to talk. (And that shouldn't have made him feel even the slightest bit giddy inside).

He groaned and rolled over. He was a Malfoy. He'd grown up under the banner of _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper,_ believing with every bone in his body that Purity Would Always Conquer.

(But… perhaps he no longer cared?)

He considered that a moment, letting it sink in. No. He no longer cared. Not as much as he once had, in any case, and at the rate his old opinions were diminishing, it wouldn't be long before he'd lost any concern for his former pureblood ideals. And strangely enough, he was pleased with that. It gave him a certain sense of peace, and, banishing the last few anxieties and vestiges of guilt, he allowed himself to consider the idea that the upcoming weekend might be somewhat… enjoyable.

Brown. He was going to Hogsmead with Brown. They could go to the Three Broomsticks, or walk the village together, or perhaps visit Honeydukes…

As he drifted off to sleep, soothed by these pleasant thoughts, he had a vague sense of regret that he'd tacked the "as friends" to the end of the request, and wondered if at the end of the visit, she might just let him call her Lavender.

* * *

 ***Obviously I'm not okay with slavery. I'm trying to work inside a cultural context here, so apologies for that.**

 **A/N:** **So originally this was supposed to be one chapter, but because the writing was going so slowly I ended up splitting it into two. Next chapter: the full moon!**

 **See you soon! Pax et bonum!**


	21. Chapter 21: Blood Moon

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here.

 **Warnings: a very graphic transformation scene at the end, including a naked werewolf and lots of blood and the like.**

* * *

"Oh, Harry, you _didn't."_

Harry grimaced and shrugged, slowly turning red. He knew he deserved Hermione's chastisement; frankly, he felt awful, and he hadn't the faintest idea how to fix it.

The Great Hall was noisy and full of excitement, for the whole castle had awoken to find that the first heavy snowfall of the season was drifting down in thick, fluffy white flakes over the Scottish countryside, covering the castle like thick, white icing on a gingerbread house. The noise was such that the trio of students could speak to each other quietly at the end of their table, far from their classmates both in distance and in mood. None of them had gotten a lot of sleep; Hermione and Ginny had been up all night tossing and turning in worry, and Harry had awoken at any slight noise, anxiously waiting for his best mate to return to the dormitory. No such luck; he hadn't the slightest idea of where Ron had spent the night or where he was now, but when he'd awoken that morning after finally having drifted off to sleep just mere hours before, the redhead's bed was still cold and neatly made.

After spending several fruitless minutes discussing where their brother, friend and boyfriend could possibly be, the three had given up, and the conversation had turned to other troublesome matters. Among these, much to Harry's embarrassment, had been Professor Lupin's departure, and despite his best efforts his guilt had eventually propelled him to tell the whole story as he knew it, including his last conversation with the professor. Hermione was now shaking her head and tsking her tongue. "Don't give me that," Harry said irritably. "I feel bad enough as it is…"

"You need to apologize," Ginny said practically, peeling the wrapper off of a blueberry muffin. "Remus knows you didn't mean it…"

"How? I don't know where he's gone; I can't even send a letter…"

"McGonagall might know," Hermione pointed out. "You could ask her."

"Yeah, maybe," Harry muttered. The truth was, he wasn't sure he _wanted_ to apologize; not for a lack of guilt, but quite the opposite: he knew– indeed, he had intended it– how deeply his words must have cut, and he wasn't sure he could face the man after what he'd said.

The three fell into a brooding silence, each lost in their own thoughts. It was only when Ginny tugged on his arm and said, "Harry, that's the bell," that the young wizard realized that the school clock was tolling quarter to eight, and mechanically he rose and made his way with them to the Defense classroom.

The room was empty when they arrived, except for Professor McGonagall, who was covering the blackboard with several complicated-looking charts. Harry took his seat glumly, not bothering to pull out his book.

"Ron!" He started and looked up at Hermione's voice, only to find that the aforementioned Head Boy was approaching them awkwardly, his shirt rumpled and book-bag slung haphazardly over his shoulder.

"Um, hey," Ron said sheepishly, coming to a stop before them. Hermione and Harry glanced at each other, uncertain what to say, but Ginny didn't waste a moment; she leapt to her feet and threw her arms around her brother. Ron blinked. "Gin–"

"You stupid prat," she said furiously, and the trio realized that there were tears in her eyes. "Do you have any idea how worried we were about you?" She pulled back and punched her brother in the arm.

"Ow!"

"Oh, toughen up!" She glared at him fiercely, her hands on her hips and all the Weasley fire burning in her face. "You bloody idiot! Did you really think you'd stop being my brother because of something this stupid?"

Ron blushed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I… okay, I know I've been a bit of an idiot…"

"Oh, you think so, do you?!"

"Gin," Ron pleaded. His sister pursed her lips, and then sighed.

"Oh, alright… but Ron, you know I don't care. And mum and dad won't, either, if…"

"Yeah. If." Ron swallowed and looked to his two friends. "Um, hi, guys…"

"Hey," Harry said quietly. Ron swallowed and shuffled his feet. For a moment there was tense silence, and then Harry snorted. "Oh, c'mon, don't tell me you're that daft."

Ron blinked, startled. "What?"

"You're my best mate, Ron," the bespectacled wizard said firmly, rising to his feet. "And nothing's going to change that. And even if tonight ends up being, y'know… well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Ron stared for a moment, and then slowly he started to smile. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." The two grinned at each other and embraced as brothers, clapping each other on the back. A moment later they stepped apart, each looking a little abashed, and then Harry moved back, leaving a clear space between the last two members of the group.

Ron's face fell as he looked to Hermione, and his gaze dropped to the floor, looking supremely ashamed of himself. For a long moment there was silence; Harry and Ginny looked to each other nervously, uncertain what was going to happen.

Then, a choked sob burst from Hermione's mouth, and she stood and pulled the man into a hug. Ron stood there in shock for a second, and then let out a low sigh and enfolded her in his arms, holding her tightly. "Don't you ever do that to me again, you prat," the witch mumbled stuffily.

"I won't. It's been hell on me, too." They parted, Ron holding her at arm's length, and he said seriously, "But I've got to talk to you, 'Mione. Before tonight, okay?" She nodded tearfully and wiped her eyes.

A soft clearing of the throat drew their attention, and the four looked over, startled. Professor McGonagall nodded to the door. "I imagine your fellow students will be in in a moment," she said tactfully, as if she hadn't witnessed the whole event, but there was a slight smile on her mouth that told them she was pleased. "I would suggest you all take your seats."

"Er – right, yeah." All four flushing red, they took their seats, though Ron and Hermione made a point to sit next to each other in the bench-desks.

As predicted, within a minute or so the classroom door opened and other students began to pour in. Parvati and Padma Patil hurried up to the desk, explaining that Lavender wouldn't be in class that day, and McGonagall thanked them before sending them to their seats. Soon enough the school bells were tolling eight, and the students quieted down expectantly. As McGonagall called for them to open their books to the animagancy chapter, Harry glanced over to see his two best friends sitting closely side-by-side, their clasped hands resting on the desk and Ron's thumb absently tracing random patterns on Hermione's knuckles. Harry grinned to himself, and then looked over to Ginny, who smiled back and laced her fingers through his.

* * *

"Remus, love, are you sure you're okay with apparating? You know I can do it just as well, or help you side-along…"

"I'm sure, Dora," Remus reassured her, shrugging on his winter cloak. The pair were standing outside of the door of the clergy-house, Dora fussing over the state of his health and fixing his hair. "I got more rest than usual last night; besides, at this point I've practically got magic spilling out of my ears…"

"Well… if you're sure," she sighed, reaching up to brush his hair. "I'll be at the office today if you need me."

"And I'll be here with Teddy. Everything's going to be fine, Dora; I've been handling this since I was four, I think I can manage a short trip to Mungo's. Besides," he added with a quirked smiled, "if anything goes wrong, no better place to be than a hospital, eh?"

She scowled. "That doesn't make me feel any better." Remus chuckled, and Dora stood on tiptoe to give him a kiss. "See you tonight, love."

He pecked her back, and then stepped outside the apparition wards and disappeared with a _crack!_

St. Mungo's was fairly busy with people sniffling and coughing by the time he got into the waiting room; there was one man who expelled purple bubbles out of his ears every time he sneezed, and a frazzled-looking young mother with two children in tow and a baby in her arms, the last of which was squalling angrily and seemed to be doing his best to levitate out of his mothers arms. Remus approached the reception desk and cleared his throat to get the attention of the witch behind, who was reading a paperback novel. "Hello; I believe I have an appointment with Sr. Anne Perrault, of the St. Kigwe ward?"

"Name?" the witch said, not bothering to look up from her novel. Remus caught a glimpse of the front and felt his cheeks color; a rather dashing young warlock who, it seemed, had never been taught how to properly button his shirt was embracing a very busty young witch.

"Remus Lupin XIII."

The witch glanced up, surprised, and then her eyes narrowed. Remus schooled his features to be perfectly nonchalant. "St. Kigwe ward, eh?" the welcome witch said suspiciously. "You'd best clear out; no adult check-ins until two hours before moonrise."

"I'm not here to check in. As I said, I have a meeting with Sr. Anne Perrault. It is of paramount importance."

Still eyeing him dubiously, the witch sat down her novel and checked her roster. "Well. It seems Sr. Perrault was expecting you after all. Lowest basement; password is _Monkshood."_

"Thank you. Have a good day."

The witch snorted and went back to her novel. Remus sighed to himself and made his way over to the doors leading to the rickety old staircase. He waited to make sure no one else was following him and then walked straight through the wall of the first landing.

Not many people knew that St. Mungo's had basements; indeed, it was a fact kept deliberately hidden from the wizarding population at large, for their own protection. Remus passed two levels with locked doors; the first was painted red and emblazoned with a sign reading, _EMERGENCY ROOM – NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ALLOWED;_ the second was white, reading a similar warning but this time for the hospital's private laboratories, and had a square window beyond which he could see healers in pristine robes working away at lab tables and boiling cauldrons.

The third basement and the lowest was guarded by a thick iron door, studded with bolts the size of his fist and with only the smallest window near the top through which to see, the glass double-plated and these separated with thin silver mesh. Remus pressed his palm to the door handle and said clearly, _"Monkshood!"_ The handle glowed blue, and he stepped inside.

The St. Kigwe ward was busier than usual, though, Remus knew, not half so busy as it would be that evening. Despite it being one of the oldest wards in the hospital, the room was well-kept: the walls were painted a cheerful pale blue, and a few false windows let in the bright November sunlight, showing scenes of rolling, snow-dusted moors beyond. Despite the attempt at cheerful decoration, however, there was no ignoring the second iron door at the far end of the ward, this one with three locks, beyond which he knew lay the ward's containment cells. On either side of the door were two enchanted icons, one of St. Ailbhe of Ireland, the other of St. Kigwe of Wales. Wolves dashed around their feet, leaping out of one icon into the next as the holy figures looked down upon the patients with benevolent eyes.

"Mummy, I don't want it!" a voice wailed to his right, and Remus looked over, startled. In the nearest bed a young, sickly-looking boy was refusing the potion that one of the sisters was gently trying to coax into him. He couldn't have been more than six.

"Adam, sweetheart, listen to me, you have to take your potion," his mother pleaded, looking exhausted and overwhelmed. "It's for your own good…"

"No! I _hate_ it! _I hate it and I hate you!"_

Remus forced himself to continue walking, pretending he hadn't seen a thing. About half of the beds in the ward were filled, nearly all with children under the age of ten. The one exception was a young man of about twenty, who, by the advanced geology book he was studying, Remus realized was most likely a muggle university student. He gave him a wry grin when the man glanced up, and the younger werewolf returned it.

"Remus!"

He turned and smiled. Sr. Anne Perrault was walking towards him quickly, a few vials of Wolfsbane in hand. "Thank goodness you came," the nun said with a sigh, setting the vials down on a nearby medical cart. "We were beginning to worry…"

"I apologize for being late; my wife was a bit anxious about me traveling alone today."

"I understand. Well, right this way…"

She led him, much to Remus's surprise, over to the muggle student. "Remus, I'd like you to meet Jerome Clark; Mr. Clark, this is Remus Lupin."

"Are you a werewolf too?" the young man inquired.

"Er– yes, I am."

"Oh. Sorry, maybe that was rude? I don't know; I'm a still new to all of this."

"Mr. Clark is a muggle; he was bitten last month while taking a walk through Hyde Park."

"Hyde Park?" Remus said, surprised. "You mean you were bitten here in London?" The boy nodded. "Oh dear… I don't suppose you could tell me the color of the wolf that bit you?"

Jerome shook his head. "It was pretty dark; I only just saw the shadow before the wolf– well, guy, I suppose– before he jumped me. After that I don't remember a thing. I guess it was pretty lucky I didn't bite anyone else, huh?"

"Yes, it was. Well, St. Mungo's has the means to keep you contained, but I'm sure they'll be able to tell you where to buy Wolfsbane from now on, which will make things easier for you in the future."

"Well you see, Remus, that's just the problem," Sr. Anne cut in. "Mr. Clark's been having a bad reaction to the magic in the potion; we think that adding a bit of chamomile should be able to sort it out, but until next month I'm afraid we're out of options, unless…"

"Ah." Remus understood; he glanced around, and then gave Sr. Anne a nod. The nun pulled the privacy curtains shut around the bed and cast a silencing charm. Jerome looked on in interest. "Mr. Clark," he began, "–er, may I call you Jerome?"

"Sure."

"Jerome… are you able to keep a secret?"

The young man blinked, and then nodded. "Sure thing." He watched as the older werewolf reached inside his cloak and drew something from within. When he held out his hand, Jerome could see that it was a small golden ring on a chain, very old, with a ruby set in one side and a diamond in the other. His hand instinctively reached out to touch it, but when he realized what he was doing he drew back, startled. "That's magic, isn't it?" he questioned. At Mr. Lupin's surprised look, he added, "I can feel it. Like a tug in the back of my mind…" He cocked his head and, without knowing exactly why but still quite sure that it was the right question to ask, inquired curiously: "Who _are_ you?"

Mr. Lupin hesitated, and then replied vaguely, "A benefactor." He pressed the ring into the boy's hand. "This will allow you to keep your human mind tonight; I'll return to collect it tomorrow. But you must vow to me that you will never tell anyone that you had it. Do I have your word, Jerome?"

The young man studied him for a moment, and then nodded. "Yes, Sir. I promise, I won't tell a soul."

Remus smiled slightly. "Good lad." He turned to Sr. Anne as the younger werewolf studied the Ring closely. "I suppose I'd best be going. I'll be back tomorrow, as soon as I'm able."

"Of course. Be safe, Remus."

"And you, Sister." The two embraced momentarily, and then he pushed aside the curtain and disappeared.

Jerome turned the small golden circlet over and over in his hands, studying it curiously. He held it up to the light of the window, and realized with surprise that at the right angle, the light cut straight through both the diamond and the ruby at once. Closing one eye and peering through the stones at the window, he realized with surprise that he could see some sort of blurred writing within, as if inscribed inside the jewels themselves. "Hey, Sister!" he said with surprise. "There's something written in here, it–"

But when he looked around, it seemed that the nun had left. Shrugging to himself, Jerome slipped the ring into his pocket. Whatever it was, if it was important, he was sure Mr. Lupin already knew all about it.

* * *

Transfiguration let out with swarm of Gryffindor students heading for the green, pulling on hats and gloves as they went in anticipation of spending their study break playing in the snow. Four alone made their way silently through the hallways and up to Gryffindor tower. Hermione's hand was still clutched tightly around Ron's, and it seemed that the redhead was growing more and more nervous with every step.

The common room was empty when they arrived, and Harry broke pace with Ginny to go put another log on the fire. When he turned around, Ron had his hands stuffed in his pockets and was no longer looking to any of them, but rather staring down at his shoes again.

"Look, um… no offense, Harry, Ginny, but I think… I think I need to talk to 'Mione first. Is that okay, or…?"

"'Course it is," Harry said sincerely, casting a sideways look to his fiancé. "Besides, um, Gin and I need to talk too, so…"

"Right. Okay."

The two best friends stared at each other for a moment, before Ginny huffed and grabbed her boyfriend's hand, dragging him up the stairs to the girl's dorm room. Ron watched them go, his face going a bit tight, and Hermione snorted. "Honestly, Ron, they're not going to do anything. Don't you trust Harry?"

"I don't trust any bloke with my sister," the Head Boy said darkly, crossing his arms. "But… I'd rather him than someone else, you know?"

"Mm."

They fell silent for a long moment. Eventually Hermione sighed and nodded to the armchairs in front of the fire. "Shall we sit down?"

"Yeah, alright."

They each walked over and took a seat, sitting opposite each other. Hermione waited for Ron to compose himself, growing more unsettled herself with each moment; her boyfriend's face was one of grim determination, the sort he wore whenever he had to complete a particularly difficult essay– or, as it were, tame a skrewt.

"…Hermione, before I say anything, I want you to know that this– it's got nothing to do with how I feel," Ron said at last, not meeting her eyes. "If it were my choice, I'd never… look, I want to be with you more than anything, but…"

Ice filled her veins. "Are you breaking up with me?" Hermione said softly, and was surprised by how calm she sounded. Inside, she was crumbling away.

Ron shrugged hopelessly. "I'd rather get it over with now than…"

"Ron, you know it doesn't matter to me if you're– I mean, if Remus and Tonks can–"

"But I'm not Remus, and you're not Tonks," the Head Boy said tiredly. "Hermione, if it turns out I'm still– still normal, and all that, then it's fine. But if I'm not… if I'm a…"

"Werewolf," she cut in harshly. He closed his eyes and nodded. "Ron, why? Why do you care so much? Because I don't!"

"Well you should!" he said angrily, looking up; she fell silent, stunned by the pain and anger in his cerulean eyes. "You _should,_ Hermione! Look, you– you don't know the Wizarding World the way I do, okay, you don't–"

 _"Excuse me–?"_

"You're a muggle-born!" he cried, standing to his feet. "You don't– you've got no idea how most the world views people like them! The way that I… Hermione, you were there! You saw how I reacted to Lupin, back in third year– and I _liked_ him! He'd already been my teacher for nine bloody months and I was _still_ terrified of him!"

Hermione's voice faltered. "Ron…"

"And it's not like I want to be prejudiced against him, and I'm not, but it's– it's a natural reaction, okay? I dunno, it's…" He groaned and sat back down again, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't understand…"

"Then _help_ me understand!" she insisted, moving forward in her chair and reaching across to touch his shoulder; he flinched away. "Ron!"

"…You'll hate me," he muttered, shaking his head. "You'll think I'm…"

"I won't. Honestly, Ron, I won't." She knelt down and took his hands in hers. "Please," Hermione begged. "Please, just talk to me."

There was a long silence. Then, at last, Ron sighed and stood, breaking her grip and walking a few paces away. When he turned back, he didn't meet her eyes.

"Look, it's not against any of them in particular," he admitted, shame-faced. "Like– Lupin, and Lavender, I don't mind _them._ And I know, I _know_ it doesn't make sense, but– look, you grow up hearing the stories, you know? Of some poor little kid getting bitten, or some family who was mauled to death and the muggle police can't figure it out, but you know, you _always_ know. And that… eventually that becomes the image in your mind, Hermione. Of these folks living in the wild, like animals, or… or wolves tearing people to shreds." He looked up guiltily, gesturing futilely with his hands. "And of course it's not _right,_ that that's the first thing we think of, but it is."

"Ron, it's not just you," Hermione replied, standing. "You think I'm so open-minded, but even I was wary about him! You saw how I was when I thought he was working with Sirius…"

"Then you know," he said thickly, "you _know,_ Hermione, you know what people are bound to think of someone who marries a werewolf. All of your dreams, being Minister of Magic, changing the world– all of them, gone. No one would ever respect you if you stayed with me; everywhere you went, they'd be wondering what's wrong with you. It would be the end of everything for you."

Hermione stared at him, wide-eyed, and for a moment he thought he'd finally gotten through to her. But what she said next completely floored him:

 _"M-Marriage?"_

Ron stammered wordlessly for a few moments, and then looked away. "Well… yeah," he mumbled, turning beetroot red. "I mean, not right _now,_ obviously– I think Harry and Ginny are a bit mental, to be honest, but… yeah. Someday, I guess, I was hoping that…"

But now her eyes were glittering with tears. "Oh, Ron," she whispered, and then she was kissing him, fervently, and Ron couldn't help but kiss her back, even though he knew it was useless, knew that he should really be more practical about this…

When they parted, both red in the face, Ron had to swallow hard to stop the lump from rising in his throat. "You shouldn't have done that," he said hoarsely. "'Mione, listen to me–"

"No, I won't!" she said stubbornly. "I won't, Ronald Weasley! Don't you think you matter more to me than some– some silly dream, some idea of–"

"It's not some silly dream. You could do it, Hermione, I know you could–"

"And what if I could!" she demanded. "What kind of example would I be, Ron, fighting for change when I would leave someone I love so much, just to pursue my own selfish wishes?" She touched his freckled cheek and said firmly, "I love you, Ron Weasley, and I will mean it just as much tomorrow as I do today, no matter how tonight turns out. And if you can't accept that, well, I suppose I'll just have to convince you."

Ron stared at her, stunned. "You would give all that up… for me?"

"Of course I would."

The young man gaped at her for a long moment, unable to believe it. Then, with a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob, Hermione found herself gripped in a desperate, bone-crushing hug. "Thank you," Ron mumbled into her hair, "Thank you so much, Hermione, thank you…"

"Of course," she repeated softly. "Of course, Ron. I love you."

For a few seconds they remained there, holding each other tightly, and then at last Ron pulled away, laughing and wiping his eyes. "Well… I guess I've been a bloody idiot then, huh?"

"Oh, _now_ he realizes," she teased. Ron chuckled, and then suddenly looked distrustfully up at the door.

"They've been up there a while," he said, immediately all business again. Hermione shook her head and snorted, but merely followed her boyfriend up the stairs, happy that things were now at least a bit back to normal.

Thankfully, the most scandalous thing they encountered was Harry and Ginny locked in their own embrace, both smiling. Hermione noticed that Ginny's left ring finger was distinctly bare, and there was a glint of gold peeking out of Harry's fist, but decided not to mention it.

Ron cleared his throat loudly, and the two immediately broke apart, each blushing. "Oh, um, hey," Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "So, um, you're all sorted, then?"

"Yep." Ron glanced to Ginny and said bluntly, "So the wedding's off?"

The two glanced at each other and smiled, embarrassed. "Yes, we decided it might be better to wait a bit," Ginny admitted.

"We're still together, though," Harry added. Ron nodded.

"Good." Then, he grinned. "'Cause if not, I might have to hex you, mate."

His friend chuckled and nodded. The four glanced round at each other, and then– for no apparent reason at all– they all burst out laughing: great, bubbling laughter of relief and the pure joy of friendship.

When at last their mirth had settled into contented peace, Ginny volunteered the obvious question: "So. What now?"

Ron raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, 'what now?'" At the others' obvious confusion, he exclaimed, "Blimey, what's the matter with you people? It's lunchtime!"

Much to his chagrin, the other three dissolved into laughter once again.

* * *

The setting sun had cast the castle as a silhouette against the red sky as the four made their way across the grounds to the Whomping Willow. There, a shadow in black against the white of the snow, a striped gray tabby sat at the base of the tree.

Professor McGonagall transformed back as the quartet approached. "Evening, Mr. Potter, Misses Weasley and Granger. I see you have decided to accompany your friend?"

"He did his best to put us off it, Professor," Harry said with a grin, "But we got our way in the end."

"I see." She turned her gaze to Ron and said, "You are very lucky, Mr. Weasley, to have such good friends."

The redhead smiled and glanced over at them. "I know, Professor."

"Well, moonrise is nearly upon is," McGonagall said, checking her watch. "You three," she nodded to Harry, Ginny and Hermione, "will have to wait back here. You are welcome to remain as long as you wish, but if Mr. Weasley and I do not return within ten minutes after moonrise I'm afraid it won't be of much use. Mr. Weasley, I think it'd be best if we were on our way."

"Right," Ron replied nervously. He turned to his friends, suddenly uncertain what to say. They could see the fear in his blue eyes, but he seemed to draw upon his Gryffindor courage and took a deep breath. "Well. I guess this is it, then."

As before, Ginny was the first to react. She gave her brother a quick hug without a word, and then moved aside so that Harry could clap his friend on the back. "Stay safe, mate," he said seriously, pulling away. Ron offered a grim smile, and then turned to Hermione.

The witch stepped forward and embraced him tightly. "I'll be waiting right here when– well, whenever you come back," she promised, drawing back.

He nodded, as if he'd suddenly become unable to speak. McGonagall seemed to understand and took it upon herself to end the situation. Drawing her wand, she sent a well-aimed stunning charm at the knot at the base of the tree; the willow's branches shuddered and froze. Turning back to her students, she said tartly, "It's time. Good evening, Mr. Potter, Miss Weasley, Miss Granger."

"Good evening, Professor."

She gave a short nod, lifted the skirts of her robes and disappeared into the hidden opening between the tree's roots. Ron followed without a word; the tree shuddered above them, and then the roots closed up again, shutting off the entrance.

The passageway beneath the tree was as dark and gloomy as ever; insects crawled along the dirt walls, and a sense of haunting misery pervaded the place. Professor McGonagall walked along swiftly without a word, and Ron followed. Now that he was away from his friends and the open air of the grounds, he felt his fear mounting in his chest. His mind was swirling with every gruesome werewolf story he'd ever heard, and the terror on Lupin's face when he realized that he'd forgotten to take his potion, that night in third year. The teenager swallowed and shivered, silently praying to any God if there was one that he would be spared the same fate.

As awful as the walk through the passageway was, it seemed to be over all too soon; before he knew it the walkway had come to an end, and before them was a very old, beaten oak door. McGonagall pulled it open. "In you go," she said tartly, when she saw that Ron had frozen, but her eyes were sympathetic.

The young man slipped inside. The Shrieking Shack was every bit as miserable as he remembered it, all dust and scratched-up walls, the paint peeling away. The sitting room into which the door led at least seemed recently used, for there were cold black coals in the hearth and a new yet rumpled blue blanket on the couch, but it was a gloomy place nonetheless.

He turned as he heard the door shut behind him and found Professor McGonagall standing there. She had a rather odd expression on her face; her mouth was pinched tight, but it seemed her eyes gleamed a bit too brightly, as if she were holding back tears. Ron quickly looked away, embarrassed both to have seen and, he presumed, to be the cause. "So," he said, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "What now?"

McGonagall sighed. "Now, we wait." She checked her watch and nodded to the stairs. "We've only a few minutes. There's a bedroom on the top floor, first on your left; Remus usually used it to transform."

"Okay," Ron said nervously. "And… and if I do, y'know…"

"I'll remain down here until the transformation is complete. Most likely you'll hear me and come down yourself, but if not I'll transform and go find you."

Ron tried to agree, but found that his voice had failed him. He realized that his hands had begun to shake. McGonagall, in a moment of sympathy, laid a hand on his shoulder. "Time and time again you have proven yourself to be very courageous young man, Mr. Weasley. I have no doubt that whatever may come when the moon rises, you will be able to bear it."

"Thank you, Professor," he whispered hoarsely. She nodded kindly, and then checked her watch again.

"Five minutes. Go."

He did so, turning around and walking mechanically up the stairs without a glance back. Ron was sure that if he did, he'd freeze in place and wouldn't be able to move another step.

He found the bedroom on the left, just as McGonagall had promised. It was even more dismal a place than the sitting room; the floor was covered in a thick layer of dust, in which were imprinted several overlapping patterns of shoe-prints, all of which seemed to stop in roughly the same place. Then a large, misshapen space where there was no dust, some of it swept away in long arcs as if someone or something had been making a madman's misshapen version of a snow-angel, and, finally, great paw-prints padding around the room and back towards the door. Long, deep grooves, whether from nails or claws he didn't know, covered the floor and walls, even marking up the posts of the old, rotting bed in the corner. Ron swallowed. He didn't want to think about Lupin, screaming and flailing on the floor, clawing at the ground in agony. He didn't want to think about what kind of horrors could reduce a man of such dignity and humanity to so debased a state.

He stripped off his shirt and trousers, shivering in the icy November air as he wrapped himself in one of the newer blankets someone had left on the foot of the bed. There he sat and waited, unable to keep his mind from twisting down dark paths. What was it like, Ron wondered? How badly did it hurt? He had never dared to ask Lavender or Lupin about it; now he wished he had.

He checked his watch; three minutes. What would his parents think? Oh, he knew they would still love him– they would always love him– but they had been through so much already, how could they take having a werewolf son? Would they flinch away from him? Or worse, look at him with pity? Ron didn't think he could take that; he hated being pitied. Made him feel like an invalid.

Two minutes. And what about Hermione? He knew she'd promised, and that woman never broke a promise– but what if they did get married? What about five years from now, or ten? Twenty? How long would it be before she started to resent him, for destroying her dreams, for putting his own selfish needs before that of everyone she could help? Ron wasn't sure he was strong enough to find out.

A minute. Terror thrilled inside him, and the worst fear of all finally forced its way out of the tiny cage in the back of his mind: would he be able to stand himself? He'd heard stories about werewolves offing themselves, and secretly, he'd never blamed them. A shiver prickled the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck; what would it be like, to be a monster? He hated himself immediately for thinking that way, but there it was, in all of its prejudice, guilt, and painful honesty: he didn't want to be a monster.

 _But… would that really be true?_

He looked to the smudges in the dust at his feet, to the terribly clean space, and thought about the man who'd persuaded him to apply to the corps, who'd convinced George to go sober, who'd given him the talking-to he'd needed for a long time and seen through the charade of a stupid teenager to someone who couldn't figure out how to ask for help. And he thought of the girl he'd snogged senseless under the mistletoe at sixteen and who'd chewed him out at eighteen. And lastly, he thought of his friends, even now waiting back at the Willow, prepared to be with him through thick and thin.

He checked his watch one final time and felt a violent jolt in the pit of his stomach. Five seconds. _Four. Three._

If they could have faith in him, Ron thought stoutly, straightening up and preparing to face the worst , if his friends could believe in him–

 _Two._

Well, then he could believe in himself, too.

 _One._

 _…_

 _Two._

 _Three._

 _Four…_

He gaped in shock, staring down at the watch, but there was no denying it: the second hand ticked on, clicking against the glass, jumping from one faded planet to the next. Ron forced himself to remain calm; maybe his watch was slow; maybe the moon didn't rise exactly on the top of the minute…

But after another sixty seconds, his doubt had vanished; Ron leapt to his feet and rushed to the window, where just the faintest rays of moonlight were beginning to pierce through the cracks between the boards. Slowly at first, then with jubilation and relief, he started to laugh: great, chortling bouts of laughter that he was sure could be heard by the whole village, but Ron didn't care. He threw back on his shirt and trousers and raced down the stairs, his shoes stomping loudly on the hardwood in his haste.

Professor McGonagall was sitting on the faded sofa, smiling wider than he'd ever seen her. "Well then," she said, rising to her feet, "I believe we'd best be heading back, don't you think, Mr. Weasley?"

"Sound great to me, Professor," the Head Boy replied, grinning broadly. On their way back through the passageway, Ron– who still felt like he'd swallowed a whole bucket of felix felcis– said, "Eh, Professor?"

"Hm?"

"I think I'd really like to start those animagus lessons soon."

McGonagall looked over at him, surprised. Then, much to Ron's shock, the straight-laced headmistress threw back her head and began to laugh.

The others were still waiting for them when the pair finally climbed out of the willow; Hermione let out a gasp of relief and rushed forward, embracing him so fervently that she knocked both of them to the ground. "Hey, hey," Ron laughed, sitting up; Hermione was still clinging to his neck and letting out little noises like half-sobs. "C'mon, I'm alright."

"You stupid prat," she mumbled into his shoulder. "Don't you ever scare me like that again."

"Eh, well, no promises…" Hermione drew back, scowling, and punched him half-heartedly in the arm. Ron chuckled and looked up. "Hey, Harry, Ginny."

"Glad to see you're okay, mate," Harry replied with a grin. Ginny looked too close to tears of her own to talk.

The bespectacled wizard helped his friend to his feet (a slightly difficult task, considering that Hermione was once again resolutely refusing to let go of him) and then the four turned to find McGonagall smiling at them, though there was a hint of sadness in her eyes, too. "You've been very lucky, Mr. Weasley. I would not recommend you take it for granted," she advised.

"No, ma'am," Ron agreed seriously.

"But enough with this. I do believe if you hurry you'll catch the end of dinner; goodness knows you have much to celebrate."

"Here, here!" the redhead agreed, eliciting laughter from the others. They started towards the castle doors, all five in a state of content, and were just about to step inside out of the cold when they heard it: a low, haunting howl echoing out from the direction of the forest.

All five froze. A few seconds passed, and then the howl came again. Ron turned to McGonagall, face even paler than usual. "W-was that Lavender?"

The third howl answered his question, for it was joined by another, a low baying that must have belonged to a companion. McGonagall's face had gone very hard. "No," she said grimly, drawing her wand. _"Expecto patronum!"_ A silvery cat burst into being and turned to face her. "Emergency call to the Auror Office, United Kingdom. Request for backup. Unidentified werewolves running wild in Hogsmeade; threat to the village suspected." The cat nodded and dashed off.

"Professor–" Harry began, but the headmistress shook her head sharply.

"This is not your fight, Potter. Inside, all of you. Granger, Weasley, get all of the children back to their dorms and have the professors come to find me as soon as they can." There was an icy gleam in her green eyes, and Harry nearly shivered; never before, not even in the heat of battle, had he seen a look of such utter wrath on the headmistress's face. "I'll be in the forbidden forest."

* * *

"Mark, I really don't think this is a good idea…"

"Stop being such a wuss. We'll be at Hogsmeade in no time."

Mark Higgesnbee looked around nervously as he followed after his friend; the sun had set just a minute ago, but already the shadows of the Forbidden Forest were thickening into a deep, dark gloom. Snow crunched under his boots and the nipping wind bit at his nose. He wished he'd just told Davy to go on his own, but he hadn't wanted to look like a scared kid and besides, he'd wanted to see Hogsmeade, too. Being muggle-born, he was fascinated by the idea of a full wizarding village, with magical stores and a candy shop with sweets that could make you _float!_

"Bloody rubbish rule, that first years can't go," Davy grumbled as they clambered over a fallen log. "My dad says that Hogsmeade is brilliant; we'll pop into the shops and visit the Three Broomsticks, and then come back this way and no one will ever be the–"

Both boys froze as a deep, bone-chilling howl reverberated through the trees. "…W-what was that?" Mark whispered, barely breathing.

"N-nothing," Davy stammered uncertainly. "P-probably just a dog–"

Another howl, closer this time. Mark let out a little gasp and turned, wide-eyed, to his friend. "Davy," he moaned, "Davy, what day is it?"

His friend went pale. "Oh no."

A third howl rang out, seemingly right behind them, and was joined by a fourth. The boys took off running, stumbling over fallen branches and rocks, slipping in the snow. A third howl joined the first two, then a fourth and a fifth; the boys ran in blind terror, not sure which way was which, not even sure where they were running to. They splashed through a shallow stream, icy water drenching their robes, scrambling up the frozen bank and again into the shallow snow. It seemed that no matter how fast they ran the wolves were always right on their tail.

And then, suddenly, a howl came from not far in front of them; the two stopped short and looked at each other in abject terror. "This way!" Davy cried, grabbing Mark's hand and dragging him to the right. Over root, under branch, the howls chasing behind them, beside them, all around them–

"AGH!"

Mark hit the snow before he even realized he'd tripped. Davy whirled around. _"Mark!"_

The boy scrambled back, but it was too late; out of the shadows directly in front of him, two glowing yellow eyes appeared in the darkness. He let out a low moan of terror and looked behind him, but it was no good; the wolves had them encircled. Mark whimpered, gripping his wand tightly. This was it. He would never see his family again… never tell his parents that they loved him…

The massive wolf in front of him let out a little snort– was it laughing? Mark couldn't tell– and jerked his head to the left. Another large wolf lumbered out of the darkness, this one with reddish fur mixed in with the gray. It bared its teeth in what almost seemed to be a grin, and then looked to the huge gray wolf again. It gave a short nod, and Mark heard Davy let out a strange choking sound. The reddish wolf turned back to them with that same feral grin, and both boys screamed as the wolf lunged.

 _BANG!_

An impossibly loud noise ricocheted off the trees, and the reddish wolf was thrown sideways with a loud yowl. Mark scrambled to his feet as all the wolves turned in unison, snarling at an unseen point in the shadows. He squinted, peering into the woods, and then out of the darkness came a–

 _–cat?_

The tiny feline pounced into the light, expertly dodging the snapping jaws and tearing claws of the wolves. A moment later, none other than Headmistress McGonagall was standing in front of them, pushing them back with one hand and holding a– Mark's jaw dropped open– an old muggle revolver with the other. She fixed the deadly weapon on the enormous gray wolf, who froze and then tilted its head, as if interested.

"You must be a bigger fool than I thought, to come here so soon," the witch said coldly. The wolf eyed her, yellow eyes gleaming. "The aurors will be here any minute. If you have decency or common sense left in that rotted heart of yours, you'll leave that village alone."

The wolf hunched down, growling, and Mark felt his heart leap into his throat as all the others did the same. Maybe the headmistress could take down one, but they'd never stand a chance if all of the wolves attacked at once!

But then the amazing happened; Professor McGonagall whirled around, grabbed him by the arm and then suddenly everything vanished. Mark tried to cry out in surprise, but it was impossible; he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, it was like being squeezed tighter and tighter through a tube, and then–

His feet hit the ground and he stumbled forward, unable to keep his balance; a surprisingly strong hand caught the back of his robes and steadied him, before pushing him forcefully forward, through the break in the ancient wall, into the school grounds. Breathing heavily, mind whirling, he turned to see a very angry Professor McGonagall glaring back at him.

"What were you two thinking?" she barked. Both of the boys flinched. "Sneaking off school grounds in the middle of the night! There's a reason that forest is called _forbidden!_ Well? Answer me!"

"We– we wanted to see Hogsmead, ma'am," Davy mumbled.

The headmistress gaped at him, and Mark desperately wished that his friend had just remained silent. "You wanted to–" She shook her head incredulously. "Do you two have any idea how foolish you've been?! It's the full moon!"

"We didn't remember it was the full moon, ma'am," Mark whispered, shame-faced.

"Didn't remember! Merlin and Morgana, I ought to–" The witch pinched the bridge of her nose, seemingly in an effort to calm herself. The two boys waited in agony, wondering what sort of punishment they would receive. But when she lowered her hand and looked them dead in the eyes, the words she spoke in her calm, matter-of-fact voice dealt a far more grievous blow than any bellowed chastisement could have:

"Do you realize," she said quietly, coldly, "that you may very well have cost someone their life tonight?"

The two gaped at her, filling with a sense of utter shock and guilt. The professor waved her hand. "Go. Both of you, back to the castle. Go to bed. Fifty points from Gryffindor– apiece. I'll decide on further punishment in the morning. Right now–" She turned back to the wall and stepped over the ruins; the boys could hear the distant pops of apparition and shouting in the forest, "–Right now, there is a village in grave danger."

And with a sharp _crack,_ she vanished, leaving the two shame-faced boys in her wake.

* * *

 _Chime. Chime. Chime. Chime. Chime. Chime. Chime. Chime._

Nymphadora groaned and rolled over, only to find herself with a mouthful of fur. The body to which the fur belonged stirred, as well, and she suddenly got a very bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.

As she sat up and checked her watch, a wave of guilt washed over her. She'd fallen asleep. Worse still, she'd fallen asleep lying next to Remus. Oh, he was going to _kill_ her…

She turned to the large gray wolf on whose torso she had been lying. Remus had lifted his head and was glaring at her with bright golden eyes. Nymphadora winced. "Er, morning, Love."

The werewolf let out a very angry snort, and her wince turned into a grimace. "I know, I know! But I didn't mean to, honest! You're just really comfy as a pillow!"

Remus growled, and she could practically hear his argument in the sound. With a scowl, she crossed her arms. "Oh, stop being such an infant! You _didn't_ hurt me and you _wouldn't_ have even if you _had_ woken up!" He let out an angry snort. "No you wouldn't have!"

He growled again and jerked his head towards the cub, who was stirring against his father's belly. Dora immediately realized the flaw in her argument and dropped her gaze. "Oh. I …Remus, I'm sorry. I won't let it happen again, I promise."

He looked ready to berate her further, before he seemed to remember he currently had no functioning vocal chords for that sort of a discussion and looked away, obviously furious. Dora swallowed the lump in her throat and rested against the wall, feeling awful. Of course Remus could control himself around her, she had no worry about _that–_ but Teddy was still a baby, and a very active one at that. If he'd woken up in the middle of the night and had managed to get around his father's body to his mother… Dora felt positively sick with guilt at the very thought.

The feeling of something cold and wet against her hand drew her attention, and Dora looked over, startled. Remus looked back at her with apologetic eyes and nudged her hand with his nose. Dora wiped her eyes hastily– tears had sprung at the realization that her foolishness might have led to a life of perpetual guilt for her son– and tried for a smile. "It's okay, Love; you're right. I should have been more careful."

He shook his head, and his tail beat out a pattern: _ME TOO._

"Well, we'll just both have to be more careful next time, eh?" He smiled as much as a wolf could and then bumped her palm with his nose again. Dora chuckled and obligatory began to pet his head, giving special attention to his ears. Remus sighed and lowered his muzzle down to his paws again.

They passed nearly three-quarters of an hour in that fashion, just sitting in companionable silence. Teddy eventually got up and began to wander around; any time he got too close to Dora his father would growl a warning, and the cub would meekly scamper away. At about a quarter to nine, Dora's watch began to chime again, and Remus raised his head. His wife swallowed. "Five minutes," she said quietly.

With Remus's help she managed to catch Teddy and, despite the cub's squirming and growling, injected him with a syringe of sedative potion. Once the baby was assuredly asleep, she sat down again, cradling him in her arms. Her husband frowned and jerked his head towards the staircase insistently, but she shook her head. "I know you don't want me to see, Remus, but I've heard it dozens of times. Why won't you let me stay with you?" He looked away, and she sighed. "You have no reason to be embarrassed; it's not as if this is your fault. I just want to be here for you, to make things easier if I can… I don't want you to feel so alone." When he still wouldn't meet her eyes, Dora grabbed him by the chin and tilted his muzzle back to look at her. "Listen to me, Remus Lupin," she said quietly, "I love you more than anything in this world, more than life itself. And more to the point, I _respect_ you, as my husband and as my friend. If you want me to go, I'll go. But I promise, I won't think one iota less of you for anything I see here. Okay?"

There was a long pause in which Remus just stared at her with his luminous, unblinking gold eyes. Then, after what seemed like an infinity of silence, he nodded. Dora smiled sadly, and then checked her watch again. Her face grew solemn. "Three minutes."

Those three minutes passed somehow both too quickly and agonizingly slow, until both of them were almost so neurotic with dread that they just wished it would happen already Then, the pain struck, and that wish was instantly regretted.

It happened so instantaneously that Dora started when she felt her husband's body tense under her palm. He let out a sharp, hoarse gasp from between his teeth, nearly a bark, and every muscle went taut. Tremors began to race up and down the lithe, bony limbs as his breathing grew heavier and heavier, until, suddenly, it seemed he couldn't take it any longer, and a wretched howl escaped his throat.

Dora flinched, her hand quaking as it rested on Remus's spasming form. Her husband's whole body collapsed sideways as the legs began to kick and flail wildly, accompanied by howls and bays of utter agony. Fur was retracting forcibly back into the pores of the skin; the face was shrinking as the canine fangs receded into adult human teeth. Dora let out a sharp, choked noise as she heard the forearm bones snapped apart, accompanied by a half-human, half-animal scream from his bloodied mouth. His paws– hands– scratched at the floor, claws popping off of raw nail-beds which were soon covered by fresh human fingernails, and oh, she wanted to look away, she couldn't bear it–

But she had to. She had promised him, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. So with tears spilling down her cheeks, the auror forced herself to watch, and more still, to reach out and grab his hand. Remus looked to her with anguish-dazed hazel eyes, his face still misshapen and half-covered with fur, and his hand gripped hers back.

A moment later he let out a scream so awful it made her gasp as his whole body contorted into a fetal position, knees drawing up to his chest. As she watched, his head moved from a horizontal position on his spine to a vertical one, accompanied by a sickening grinding noise that made her want to throw up, and then…

…Then, it was over. Remus lay gasping, quivering, on the stone floor, seemingly in a state of shock. His hand unclenched from around hers and he hugged it close to himself, curled up with his back to her as he shivered– from pain or from cold, Dora didn't know. In an effort to preserve both his dignity and body temperature, the auror quickly pulled the blanket she had been using over him; Remus clutched at it with trembling fingers and waited for the aches to fade away.

With Dora's help, the man eventually managed to sit up, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. "I told you I didn't want you to see it," he said hoarsely, not meeting her eyes.

"I'm glad I did," his wife replied softly. "Remus… I never knew…" He wanted to cringe at the pity in her tone, but before he could try to put on a show of courage Dora beat him to it: "I never knew how strong you were. I can't imagine it, going through that alone… I wish I were half as brave as you."

"I'm not brave," Remus said quietly. "I just do what I have to."

Dora touched his jaw and turned his face to hers. "You, Remus Lupin, are the bravest man I know," she said sincerely, and then kissed him gently on his cracked lips. Remus winced– his jaw and mouth were still sore– but didn't pull away.

Thankfully, he didn't have to; Dora drew back a moment later, grimacing. "Ugh. You taste like iron."

"Sorry. Blood," he whispered roughly.

"Yeah. Here, let me help you with that."

She retrieved a little tin cup that they'd found in the trunk and filled it with an _aguamenti._ Remus rinsed his mouth until the metallic taste was gone, and then washed his bloodied hands, cleaning under the fingernails until not a speck of red remained. When he was finished, he stood and dressed (a task he insisted on doing himself, now that he had a little of his strength back) and, once Dora had been sufficiently convinced of his ability to stand and walk without passing out, she helped him up the stairs and apparated the pair back to the clergy-house. Remus was overjoyed at the aroma of bacon and eggs that surrounded them as they stepped inside; he felt like he could eat a whole feast.

Dora, it seemed, was equally excited. "Good morning!" she called as they walked into the kitchen. "I smell breakfast! Is there anything I can do to– oh."

Both she and Remus stopped short. They were met with the grave faces of not the reverend and his wife, but of Professor McGonagall and– the pair felt their heart drop into their stomach– Kingsley Shacklebolt. "Kingsley," Remus said grimly. "What's happened?"

In response, the minister nodded to the chair. "Remus, Tonks… I think you'd better sit down."

Their fear growing, both took a seat at the kitchen table. The minister and headmistress looked at each other, clearly uncertain how to address the issue. "Remus, Tonks," said McGonagall gravely, "there was an attack in Hosgmead last night."

The reaction was immediate; the man went pale, while his wife immediately began demanding information. Kingsley held up a hand. "Thankfully, nobody was hurt, but it was too close a call for comfort. Somehow the whole pack managed to vanish before the aurors could apprehend them, and we have no idea where any of them are now."

"It was Greyback's pack?" Remus demanded. "You're sure?"

"Positive," McGonagall replied.

A long silence reigned over the table.

"Remus," said Kingsley at last, "I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you. But I am asking you, as one leader to another, not to give into these terror tactics." He leaned forward. "If the Ring falls back into Greyback's hands, we could very well have another full-fledged war on our hands."

"What else can I do?" Remus asked hollowly. "He won't stop, he's proven that now. This time it was the village; what if next time it's the school?"

"The village is secured," McGonagall reassured him. "Arthur took the initiative to set a twenty-four hour watch on the village. Aurors are patrolling it as we speak, and as to Hogwarts, the school is better fortified than ever."

"He'll find a way," the werewolf whispered, seemingly not even in the room any more. "Fenrir Greyback always finds a way." He looked up with glimmering golden eyes, the old scars seeming deeper than ever. "Professor, what else can I do?"

The headmistress's face was sorrowful, but when she spoke, her words were as strong and sure as he'd ever head them. "You do what you have done before, Remus," she said, "What Hogwarts has always done when dark and dangerous forces threaten the safety of her students." She stood and reached across the table, her eyes gleaming with an almost mad brightness, and when she grasped his shoulder, her grip was hard as iron:

 _"You teach them to fight."_

* * *

 **A/N: C'mon, you guys didn't really think I'd keep Lupin away for long, did you?**

 **And** _ **ta-da!**_ **Ron's not a werewolf! For those of you who are wondering why some people get turned by a non-full-moon bite and others don't, I promise, I'm not making this up as I go: I have a plan.**

 **So what do you think? Did it turn out the way you expect? Please do leave a review! Pax et bonum!**


	22. Chapter 22: Of Silver and Gold

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here. Credit to _Field and Stream's_ Bill Heavey and his online article _How to Put an Arrow in Your Target Every Time_ for information on how to effectively shoot a bow, and Dan Koboldt's online article _A Quick and Dirty Guide to Feudal Nobility_ for information on proper use of titles in old British feudalism.

 **Nymph: It should be relatively easy for one to set up a fanfiction account on this site, presuming he is at least thirteen years or older. Simply click "sign up" in the upper right-hand corner of the window and follow the instructions provided.**

 **Warnings: cursing, reference to the Dunblane school massacre of 1996.**

* * *

The snow crunched quietly underfoot as the man made his way through the silent woods, a gray-brown ghost among the sleeping white giants of the snow-heaped pines.

Remus had always felt more at home in the Forbidden Forrest than nearly anywhere else, except, perhaps, the crumbling ruins of Lupin Castle. There was a certain peace there, a sensation that he was at one with the world and himself. He had never experienced any fear among the shadows of the forest's trees, and very rarely any trouble from her inhabitants– aside from one little mishap in fourth year with the acromantulas, but, after having witnessed a rather stunning show of wandless magic, the giant spiders had never dared to mess with him or his friends again (Remus still felt a sort of primal pride in that; a werewolf ought to be king of any wood he stepped into, and he had made these trees his domain long ago.) The centaurs had been mistrustful of him at first, but when he had promised them on his honor that he would be respectful of their ancestral home and never encroach on their personal territories, they had warmed to him almost immediately.

A soft padding in the trees around him drew his attention, and the gray ghost froze, ears perked. A breath of frozen air, half-scented with the fire-smoke of Hogsmead hearths not far off, confirmed his suspicions, and he smiled and let out a soft barking noise, holding out his hand as if in a gesture of peace and friendship.

After a moment, a gray wolf stepped meekly out of the shadows, followed by two or three more of its kind. Remus smiled and crouched down in the snow, rubbing his calloused hands over the wolves' heads and ears. The canines lifted their snouts against his hands in approval, and one even licked him under the chin. Remus chuckled. The wolves of the Forbidden Forest had been introduced by Dumbledore in Remus's second year as a diversion for those who'd happened to hear howling on the full moon and suspected that a werewolf might have taken up residence in the wood. Such rumors had combined with sightings of the natural wolf pack's members, leading to some rather nasty and dehumanizing speculations about them being the offspring of two werewolves mating on the full moon, but despite such prejudiced notions, Remus had always been fond of the pack. Now having seen several generations of it come and go, he had been unofficially accepted among them, and they always seemed to sense when he was afoot in the forest.

He stood and clucked his tongue, jerking his head in the direction he was headed, and the wolves followed docilely, like lambs in the white drifts. As they walked, Remus's mind wandered away back into thought, and to the message in his pocket, which he had penned only just that morning…

* * *

 _"What are you writing?" Dora asked from across the table, trying to spoon-feed Teddy his breakfast of apricot mush._

 _Remus didn't glance up, but merely dipped his quill again, frowning intently down at the paper. "Sorry, love, what was that?"_

 _"What are you writing? It looks important."_

 _"Hmm… yes, it is." He glanced up. "I'm writing to the alpha of the Shadowsmoke Pack."_

 _"The Shadowsmoke Pack? The one in London?"_

 _"Mm."_

 _"What for?"_

 _Remus glanced up hesitantly, and she got the sense that this was one of those times where he almost wished he didn't have an auror for a wife. "There may have been an… incident… in Hyde Park, full moon before last."_

 _"Oh." Dora's face turned grave and she set the spoon and mush down on the table. "You mean…"_

 _"I mean a muggle university student was bitten, and I'm worried that the Shadowsmoke pack had something to do with it."_

 _"Remus… if there's any evidence, you know what I'm required to do–"_

 _"That's the thing, there's no evidence– none at all, aside from that the man was bitten in London. That could be Greyback, or it could be some poor bastard who wasn't well enough contained… but it still makes me nervous." His shook his head. "The Shadowsmoke pack pledged me their authority, but I've never been sure about it. They weren't too happy with my mandate."_

 _"Oh? Why not?"_

 _He sighed and set down the quill. "Shadowsmoke is the only urban pack in existence, and they have one of the highest muggle populations among all the great packs– nearly half their numbers."_

 _"I thought muggles don't often survive the bite."_

 _"They don't." Remus's face was grim. "They go through a lot of candidates– muggles who've accepted their offer."_

 _"You mean people willingly take the bite?"_

 _"Unfortunately, yes. They approach muggles and wizards whom they believe will be open to joining the pack– the former usually lured in by the promise of superhuman power and excitement, the latter… well, honestly, I don't know why any wizard would join them, but some do. And of course, the law–"_

 _"The law only governs unconsented bites," Dora said with a nod. "I know. So you–"_

 _"My order as the Zenith Alpha went further than the letter of the law. The alpha of the pack was… less than enthusiastic about it, and although he paid all the proper lip service to honor and obedience… I don't know. I still don't trust it, so I think I'll arrange a meeting and scout out the situation myself."_

* * *

Remus paused as the memory concluded, breathing in the clean winter air. Then he turned, nodding his head in the direction he was going. The wolves obliged and followed. Deep into the forest they walked, the soft padding of paws and shoes alike muffled by the fresh snow, sunlight glinting off the white drifts like a thousand diamonds. Eventually they came to a clearing, the white-and-brown branches of the trees stretching up to the cerulean morning sky and the brilliant sunlight as if in prayer, and at last Remus saw what had been eluding him for nearly ten minutes: an eagle's nest, high in the trees, and, perched on the limb, an amber-eyed golden eagle, _Aquila chrysaetos._

Remus cupped his hands around his mouth and let out a faint cry; the eagle turned its head in interest. He'd always had a talent for imitating animal sounds– part of the werewolf sensibilities, he suspected, as it seemed a common ability among his kind– and with another call the eagle swooped down and snatched the rolled-up scroll of parchment he held out to it. "Shadowsmoke den, in London!" he called out to the avian as it glided back into the sky. "Get it to the alpha, if you can!"

There came a screeching cry, and then the silence of the wood as he watched the majestic bird soar out over the trees and vanish beyond his vision. He turned back to the wolves, who were watching him with their unreasoning and yet somehow still intelligent animal curiosity.

"It's hard work, being a leader," he informed them, and then glanced to the alpha of the pack, who was nearest him. "You understand, don't you?"

The wolf only studied him with its luminous golden eyes. Remus sighed and, ruffling the fur behind the wolf's ears, began the long snowy trek back towards the castle.

* * *

"Ah, Mr. Weasley. Please, do come in."

Ron shut the door behind him and walked into the empty classroom, setting his bag down on the desk. McGonagall appeared to have been waiting for him; the top of her wand was tucked into a pocket in the folds of her emerald robes, and her weathered hand rested on top of an intimidatingly tall stack of books on the nearest desk. "Er, morning, Professor," the student said nervously. "How are you?"

"Very well, thank you. Please, take a seat."

And just like that, the little bubble of hope he'd been holding onto that animagancy lessons would be an enjoyable way to spend his Saturday mornings burst into soapsuds.

McGonagall noted the poorly veiled look of disdain on his face and snorted. "You're going to have to get used to it, Mr. Weasley; animagancy is a very challenging magical art. One tiny mistake in the process could result in some very nasty outcomes."

"I know. Sorry, Professor." He sat down in the nearest desk and pulled out a ream of parchment paper.

McGonagall's face softened slightly at that, appreciating that he had had the foresight to come prepared, and she added, "I would not have taken you on as a student if I didn't believe you capable, Mr. Weasley. I've seen you work very hard for what you want in the past and I have no doubt that my faith in you shall not disappoint." He grinned a little at that, and her mouth twitched just a bit, before she grew serious again.

"That stated, I must impress upon you once again just how serious the magic is that you will be learning here. I don't think I need to tell you that if this information falls into the wrong hands, it could be deadly."

Ron recalled the three years he had spent diligently feeding and caring for Scabbers (it still creeped him out too much to think of the rat as Pettigrew) and repressed the urge to shudder. "Believe me, professor, I get it. Are you going to make me swear an Unbreakable Vow?"

McGonagall shook her head. "I don't like Unbreakable Vows. They tend to be too broad for important purposes… no, Mr. Weasley, what I am asking you is to make me a promise." Her green eyes seemed to pierce straight into his. "Swear to me, on your honor, that barring extreme circumstances you will _never_ reveal what I teach to you here to anyone."

Ron fell silent for a moment, surprised by the intensity in her voice. It had suddenly become clear to him that what he was undertaking was a very grave matter indeed. "…I promise, Professor," he said at last. "I won't ever tell a soul what I learn here, I swear it."

McGonagall let out a relieved sigh and nodded, sitting back in her chair. "Very good. Now…" She pushed a quill and a very official-looking document towards him. "Although I believe you, Ronald, I'm afraid the Ministry requires more official means. They want you to sign this contract."

"Is it magical?" Ron inquired, eyeing the paper warily.

"Yes, although the consequences of violating it are merely that the ministry will be alerted; you won't be cursed or any some such. That would be akin to forcing you to make an Unbreakable Vow, which of course is illegal." Ron nodded and, with a feeling of odd solemnity, picked up the quill and signed the document. The paper glowed blue for a second, and then faded back to its original state. McGonagall picked it up and, with a wave of her wand, the contract vanished.

"Very well. Please open the first book, _Introduction to Animagancy,_ to page three. We will begin with chapter one…"

Learning animagancy, as it turned out, was long and tedious work. Even the first chapter of book (Ron was loathe to see what an intermediate text would look like if this was only introductory) was full of complicated-looking diagrams and charts, and McGonagall had to pause every few minutes to explain a term. When he had to stop her to explain what she meant by "deoxyribonucleic acid," the headmistress sighed and reached across the table, shutting the book.

Ron looked crestfallen. "Am I that hopeless?"

"Not at all, Mr. Weasley. You're simply untrained. I'd hoped that my fifth year course had made these concepts clear, but it appears we're going to have to take a step back." She pulled the third book out of the stack, and Ron inspected it with interest. It was obviously a muggle book because it had a cover made of a thick sort of paper, rather than leather-bound or hardback.

"What is it?"

"A basic introduction to muggle biology. I can't claim to be an expert– my work is more involved in physics and chemistry– but I do have some background in the subject. Remus has his degree in the field as well, so if ever I'm not available I'm sure he'd be glad to help."

"Professor Lupin?" Ron said, surprised. "How would I do that?"

"Yes, I suppose you haven't heard. Remus has agreed to resume his position here, considering the events of the full moon."

"Really? That's great!" McGonagall inclined her head, and Ron looked back down to the book thoughtfully. "So this is science, right? Like how muggles got to the moon? Or make ekeltricity?" He studied the cover with a frown; there was nothing about rockets or ekeltronics there.

The expression on McGonagall's face when he looked back up informed him that they had a long way to go.

* * *

The Gryffindor common room was quiet and nearly empty when Ron got back; pink dawn was just rising over the frozen mountains outside the windows, filling the room with pale light. There was no sound except for the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the quiet bickering of his best mate and girlfriend over their game of chess. Hermione glanced up and smiled as he approached, but Harry, who was focusing very hard on trying to figure out his next move ("Move me to D6! I can take it, Sir; no army is without sacrifice!"), didn't notice until Ron said bluntly, "Bloody basilisks, mate, you really are awful."

"Huh? Oh." Harry looked up and grinned, adjusting his glasses. "We've been waiting for you! How were animagancy lessons?"

"Awful," the redhead said ruefully, sitting down in the nearest armchair. "I think I'd rather ride another dragon."

"I'm sure it's not that bad," Hermione reproved.

"Easy for you to say! You're muggle-born; I've got to learn bi–lodgy, or whatever it is. McGonagall thinks I'll bugger the whole process if I don't know what I'm doing… and she's probably right," he admitted. Hermione laughed. "Don't suppose you'd be able to help me?"

"Oh, well, I haven't taken biology for years, but I'll help where I can."

"Ah, you're a lifesaver, 'Mione," Ron said, flopping back in the armchair. "Anyway, she said if you don't know I could always ask Lupin; apparently he knows stuff about it…"

"Lupin?" Harry and Hermione said at the same time, surprised.

"Yeah– oh, right, you guys don't know! Lupin came back!"

"Really? Oh, that's wonderful!" Hermione exclaimed. "Do you suppose he's already moved back in?"

"Dunno. Probably; the full moon was three days ago now…"

"Hmm… Harry, didn't you want to talk to him?"

Harry, who until this point had been doing his best to sink into the carpet, looked up guiltily. "Uh…"

"Don't tell me you're scared!" At his sheepish look, she shook her head. "You know Remus thinks the world of you; he won't hold a grudge. You should go apologize."

"Right…" Harry stood uncertainly, and then stopped. It seemed as if his legs had suddenly turned into lead.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Are you a Gryffindor or aren't you? Go on!"

Chastised, the bespectacled wizard ducked his head and left. Ron snorted and sat down on the carpet, studying the board. He shook his head. "He really can't play chess, can he?"

"Not really. You want to start a new game?"

"Nah; I'll just beat you from here. It'll be faster that way."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Cocky, aren't we?" Ron grinned and moved the brave little rook to D6. Hermione, as he'd predicted, swept in with her queen, who cracked the rook over the head. As they continued to play, Hermione added, "I'm a bit surprised Lupin came back, honestly."

Ron shrugged. "He must have figured that whatever Greyback is blackmailing him for is too important to give up."

Hermione blinked as she moved her bishop. "Blackmail?"

"Yeah. I mean, that's got to be it, hasn't it? Greyback can't get to Lupin's family because Teddy's probably always at home, and honestly you'd have to be mental to mess with Tonks, so he goes for the closest thing: the students and the village. He was probably banking on Lupin being a good enough guy to fork over whatever it is he wants. But obviously it's important, or Lupin would have just given in, instead of coming back here to defend the school."

Hermione stared at him, and Ron flushed. "What?"

"You are… incredibly perceptive sometimes, Ron," she said, shaking her head in admiration. "You're going to make a great auror."

The Head Boy shrugged modestly, but his girlfriend could tell he was pleased. "Yeah, maybe. Oh, and by the way, 'Mione–" He moved his knight forward and took out her queen with a wink, setting the piece solidly before the king.

"Checkmate."

* * *

 _Knock-knock-knock._

Harry paused and waited, shifting from foot to foot in front of the oak door. He felt as if he were thirteen again, about to be scolded for failing to turn in a peculiar map. Halfway between knocking again and walking away he heard footsteps behind the door, and a moment later it swung open.

Both Harry and Remus blinked in surprise. The professor was holding a box full of books, dressed in blue-jeans and a gray button-down shirt, quite a casual look for the man whom Harry had never seen out of his khaki slacks and knitted jumpers. It was clear he hadn't expected to encounter any students. "Harry," the man said, startled. "Er, can I, ah– is there anything I can do for you?"

"Ron said you were back," Harry said, a bit stupidly.

"Yes– yes, McGonagall convinced me to reclaim the position, recent events considered…"

He trailed off. The pair fell into an awkward silence.

"Professor–" Harry began, at the same time that Remus said, "Would you like to come in? I've got a kettle on the fire."

"Er– yeah, alright."

He followed Lupin inside and through the half-reassembled classroom to the stairs. The office looked nearly the same as the last time Harry had been inside, aside from a bit of rearranging, and a kettle of water was boiling over a fire crackling merrily in the small hearth. Lupin waved his wand at it absently, and the kettle lifted off its hook and floated over to a waiting tea set, pouring steaming water into cups and spooning in mint leaves. "Sugar?" The professor called over his shoulder as he shelved several of the books from the box.

"Uh, yeah. Thanks." He watched as the tea set spooned several lumps into each cup, half out of interest, half out of an intense desire not to meet the teacher's eyes.

That, unfortunately, could only last so long. Remus handed Harry a steaming cup of tea and sat down across from him. Both glanced at each other and then hastily looked away, taking simultaneous long gulps of their tea.

"Um, Ron's doing well," Harry began awkwardly, setting down his cup. "He, uh, didn't turn, I mean. No one did; Rosmerta's even back at the bar."

"Yes, I heard." Lupin's eyes didn't meet his, instead staring out the window. "They were very fortunate."

"Yeah, Madame Pomfrey did blood tests on the wound and everything; she said there's no sign of infection, so…"

"Mmm."

Silence resumed. Harry stared at the grain of the oak desk, guilt bubbling up inside his stomach. Neither spoke; it seemed each was waiting for the other to start. When at last he couldn't bear the silence, he opened his mouth and–

"Harry, I am so sorry."

He looked up, startled. "Professor?"

The word seemed to pain Lupin, for the man let out a deep sigh, closing his eyes. "Harry, I- I don't know how to express how deeply sorry I am. I don't expect you to forgive me, I wouldn't even be surprised if you hated me–"

"Hated you!" Harry exclaimed, cutting him off. "Why would I hate you? _I'm_ the one who should be apologizing!"

"What?" Lupin demanded, finally looking over at him in shock.

"Saying what I did– I shouldn't have gone there. You've done so much for me, and I turned around and acted like an ungrateful little kid–"

"Harry–"

"You had to leave, you were doing the right thing. I was being a selfish prat, and– and I'm sorry," he finished, shame-faced. "Is there any chance you could forgive me?"

Remus stared at him, his expression inscrutable in the pale morning light from the window. Harry swallowed and dropped his gaze again. Maybe the professor wouldn't forgive him after all.

"Harry, you– you incredible young man," Remus said softly, and Harry looked up, surprised. "Of course I forgive you, but could you ever forgive me?"

"I just told you," the student said, surprised, "you did the right thing–"

"Not for leaving– or at least, not _just_ for that. Could you ever forgive me for… for everything, Harry? For abandoning you? For being such a bloody coward, all those years ago?"

"Professor?" Harry said again, baffled.

The man didn't answer right away. Instead, he stood and paced away, over to the window, looking out as the golden light spread over the frozen mountains. "…I told you that I didn't take you in because I didn't think I could take care of you," Lupin said lowly, "But that was only half the truth. The full truth, Harry, is that… is that I was afraid."

Harry remained silent, watching him without a word. Remus let out a low groan and turned around, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Yes. I was afraid. I was afraid of myself, afraid of you… Harry, I was a depressed, twenty-something alcoholic werewolf who couldn't keep a job to save his life, angry at the world and at myself. I told myself you would be better off without me, but I knew, deep down, that for as much as I loved you I was also terrified of you. You were James's boy, my best friend's son. I was terrified that you would hate me for not being him, or that I would be a poor guardian… At the bottom of it all I was afraid that it would be too painful, to be reminded so constantly at what I had lost, or worse, to risk such loss again." He shook his head, gaze still fixed on the ground. "I didn't think I could bear that. I told myself it was better to be numb, to feel nothing than to risk that pain… I was afraid to love someone so much. I was afraid of being a father."

He looked up at last, and Harry could saw that his hazel eyes were glimmering with tears in the golden light. "Not a day goes by that I don't regret not having taken you in, Harry," Remus said hoarsely. "Don't think for a minute that I don't realize what I've lost. Teddy should have been my second son."

Harry didn't know exactly what prompted him to do what he did next; all he knew was that it was the right thing to do. He stood and crossed the room in three short paces, and gripped the other man in a hug. Remus stiffened, startled, and then hugged him back.

After a few moments, Harry drew back, and Remus was startled to see that his green eyes were wet, as well, though his face was defiant. "You're right," Harry said stoutly. "You're right, Remus. I don't know what it's like, having a father, and I wish I did. But that year you taught here, it was like I finally had someone looking out for me. Sirius was great, he was a fantastic godfather, and I'll never forget him- but he wasn't the one who reminded me to use my head. He didn't teach me how to conjure a patronus. He didn't tell me off when I needed it, or teach me to face my fears…"

"Harry…"

"You're going to be a great father, Professor. Trust me." He gave the man a watery smile, and nothing more needed to be said. Remus understood.

"Thank you, Harry," he said hoarsely. "That… that means a great deal to me." He drew a breath, and it shuddered, just a little. "I know it's too late, to be any sort of a father figure for you… but is there any chance, that I could still be your– your Uncle Moony?"

It was as if a warm fire had burst to life inside the young man's heart. For the first time in his life, Harry realized that he had someone he could call _family–_ well, family that he didn't hate, anyhow. "Yeah," he agreed with a nod. "Yeah, I think I'd like that."

The two grinned at each other, a bit sadly. Then, somewhere in the silence, there came the sound of a clock striking the hour. Remus started and checked his watch.

"Goodness, it's nearly nine. Breakfast will be starting any minute."

"Oh. Right." Harry flushed red, suddenly embarrassed by the mushiness of the conversation. "Um–"

Remus waved his hand. "Go. Enjoy your weekend, I, er, still have some tidying up to do here anyway."

"Right, yeah. Thanks." Harry shouldered his bag and headed for the door. Just as he opened it, he glanced back. "Er, by the way: I'm really glad you're back… Uncle."

The warm smile that filled Remus's scarred face seemed to light up the whole room.

* * *

Draco shifted from foot to foot nervously, running a hand through his still slightly damp hair. He'd just gotten out of Quidditch practice an hour previously; only the promise of spending the last few sunlit hours of the day with Brown in Hogsmead had given him the self-control to ignore Blaise's snide sneers and remarks as the captain made him run drill after drill in the bitter cold– all for naught, for, despite the fact that the well-intentioned but untrained Tucker would definitely not be ready for the match against Ravenclaw, it was clear that Blaise still intended to play the underclassman come December. The moment practice had gotten out Draco had quickly showered, dressed in nice grey sweater that mother had always told him complemented his eyes, and hurried off in the direction of the Gryffindor tower.

Now here he was, waiting against the wall a corridor down; Draco checked his watch and found it was nearly noon. A pair of Gryffindor first-years came around the corner and cast him curious looks; Draco raised an eyebrow and they quickly scurried away. The Slytherin rolled his eyes, and then checked his watch again. Five to twelve.

"Hi."

Draco started and turned. Lavender Brown flushed red; she looked very wintry and charming, with white gloves and earmuffs and her golden curls falling prettily on her raspberry cloak. "Hello," he replied. "Are you ready?"

"Oh. Oh, er, yes."

They started off together through the corridors, neither talking; Draco wondered if she was as nervous as he was, but didn't dare look over to check. Several students passed by them, goggling, and he felt his hands clench into awkward fists; surely it would dawn on her at any moment that this had been an awful idea, she would realize she didn't want to be seen with him, _what_ had he been thinking…?

But Brown didn't say a word. Together they walked through the halls in an uncomfortable silence more appropriate to two poor souls on the road to their own executions.

Things were no better in Hogsmead. Shoppers caught one look at the odd pair and narrowed their eyes, scurrying past as quickly as they dared. Mothers pulled whispering and pointing children close to their skirts; shopkeepers stopped at their doors and cast them hard glares which were a strict if unspoken order to move along. Draco could feel the heat rising to his pale face, he fought the urge to glare back or, worse, clutch anxiously at his wrist. They rounded a corner onto the high street, both subconsciously hoping to be lost in the crowds, but no matter where they went Draco still caught the mistrustful glances, the fingering of wands, the darkening faces–

Without warning, a strange and sudden feeling came over him, like a chill sweeping over a mountain. The young man drew his wand on instinct and stopped, looking around.

Endless dread-filled days of watching his back, of sleeping with one eye open and one hand on the grip of his wand, had done their work: without their noticing it, a ring of angry villagers had surrounded them and was now blocking their way, most of them men, the women and children looking on fearfully in the background. Draco immediately sized them up; there were at least ten or twelve wizards around them, seven with wands drawn, and it was doubtful any passers-by would give the pair the benefit of the doubt if a duel erupted.

Lavender, for her part, had not yet noticed the disturbance; she took several more steps, seemingly lost in thought, and then she, too, drew to a startled halt. Immediately her golden eyes widened in fear and face went stark pale, knotted scars standing out like wax against the cream skin. Her hands clutched at the raspberry coin-purse, white-knuckled.

For several tense moments no one spoke; then one of the wizards stepped forward, wand leveled directly at Lavender's eyes.

Immediately Malfoy stepped forward, setting a protective hand on her shoulder; the other still gripped his wand. "Can we help you, gentlemen?" he asked coldly, but Lavender could feel his fingers gripped tightly around her cloak.

"You can help us by leaving," the man who'd stepped forward spat.

"As it happens, we were rather hoping to enjoy a day in the village," Malfoy replied coolly. "We're not looking for any trouble."

"Well you've found trouble. We don't take kindly to criminals and monsters walking in our streets."

Draco's eyes flashed. "A criminal I will grant," he said icily, "and I will leave if you ask. But there is no _'monster'_ here."

"Well if that's not further proof!" another man sneered from the side. "A dark wizard defending a dark creature!"

"She's probably in league with _them!"_

"She's dangerous! They both are!"

"Walking around with ordinary people– it shouldn't be allowed!"

The crowd began to converge, churning angrily; more onlookers were joining, some fingering their wands. Lavender tried, _tried_ to force herself to draw her wand, but her shaking hands refused to unclench from around the purse and the air suddenly seemed very thin, oh _please,_ don't let her faint now–!

Suddenly the hand on her shoulder clamped down hard as iron; Lavender let out a sharp cry, but it was swept away as she was yanked into a suffocating gray nothingness, tighter and tighter until–

The pair landed hard on the snow ground, and Lavender collapsed into the snow as the breath she had been holding finally gave way to light-headed vertigo. The world swam before her eyes; the sound of wintry birdcalls echoed too loudly in her ears, the cawing of the crows like mocking laughter. The panic and fear that had been welling up inside her finally ruptured, and, much to her embarrassment, Lavender burst into tears. It just wasn't fair, she thought viciously, resentment and sorrow filling her at the injustice of it all, she had never done _anything_ to them, and how _dare_ they suggest that she would be in league with that brute, after the awful– the horrible–

"Brown. Brown, get ahold of yourself. For goodness' sake– _Lavender!"_

She became aware that someone had been saying her name, and she looked up in surprise to find two silvery eyes looking back at her. That was right, Lavender realized in mortification. She wasn't alone.

"I– I'm sorry," she hiccupped, trying to stop the tears. "I-I just– just–" She wiped her eyes and realized that her makeup was probably running down her cheeks in ugly black rivers, _oh,_ what a mess she must be…

Malfoy's face seemed to soften a little, even growing a bit embarrassed, and he knelt down beside her in the snow. "Here," he muttered, obviously uncomfortable, and pulled a clean white kerchief out of his pocket. "Use this– has a cleaning charm."

"Th-thank you," Lavender mumbled, dabbing at her eyes. She rubbed at her face until she was sure that all the smudged makeup was removed and then made to stand up. The young wizard beat her to it and politely offered her his hand, which she accepted, standing up a bit shakily. "I-I'm so sorry," she said again, humiliated. "I've ruined everything."

"Don't say that," Malfoy retorted sharply; and she looked up in shock to find that his gray eyes were blazing silver. "You didn't do anything. It was those– those awful, spiteful little–" He struggled for a moment or two before seeming to give up on finding a malediction of both sufficient strength for his anger and propriety for saying in front of a lady. "They had no right," he concluded savagely. "No right."

Lavender shrugged. "I'm a werewolf," she said hopelessly. "To them, that's enough right on its own."

"Even so!" He paced a few steps away, still fuming. It was at this point that Lavender at last looked around and realized where she was. Malfoy had apparated them onto the path not far from the school gates. The wood was empty around them, and quietly hushed with snow; the peace seemed strange, after the violent near-confrontation in the village.

"Even so," he sighed, turning and breaking her from her thoughts. "And yet six months ago I would have been right behind them." He paced a few steps away and sat down on a snow-drifted log, seemingly impervious to the cold. "…I owe you an apology, Brown," Malfoy said heavily. "You've been… uncommonly kind to me, for no merit of my own, and I repay you by casting suspicion on you by my mere presence."

Lavender walked over hesitantly; Draco didn't look up, but instead stared down at his gloved hands. "I-I don't know how much this helps," she began, "but I'm pretty sure that, after last full moon, they would have been suspicious of me whether you were there or not."

The young man looked up, surprised, and then offered a wry smile. "That's good of you to say."

"It's the truth." She dusted off a spot on the log and sat down beside him. "Malfoy, what in the world are we going to do?"

He shrugged, staring off into the snowy trees. "I suppose try to avoid everyone for the rest of our lives."

"That's not funny," she said grumpily.

"I wasn't joking."

Lavender snuck a glance over at him and was surprised by how very old and sad the young man looked– nothing like the cocky, arrogant boy she had known in years past. There was a deep shadow behind those silver eyes, not of evil but of weight, like storm clouds waiting to release a deluge. His fingers twitched towards his left wrist and then stilled.

A sudden resolve swept through her. "Well," she said stoutly, rising to her feet, "let's not let them spoil our afternoon."

Malfoy looked up at her, startled. "Beg pardon?"

"So what if we can't go into the village? All the better then! It's dreadful cold, anyhow."

She crossed her arms, and to the stunned young man she seemed as warm and radiant as a hot stove, the bright sunlight glinting off her gold eyes and hair, rosy-cheeked and dazzling in the vivid pink of her cloak against the sparkling snow. "Well, I-I suppose you have a plan, do you?" he managed.

Lavender smiled.

* * *

"–So there we were, expected to make dinner for twenty of the most demanding and, honestly, more than a few among the most distasteful people in all of Europe, without so much as a scullery maid to help," Malfoy explained, pushing the portrait open as they stepped into the kitchen. "Poor mother was in a state; she can't cook a thing, you know, seeing as we always had a house-elf or a maid to do it for us; I doubt she could boil water if she had to. Father was even worse; honestly I'm not sure he'd be even able to identify a potato peeler, much less use one." Lavender giggled. "Worse still, we'd already made the mistake of opening the cellar for them and mother was terrified that they were drunk enough to kill us if we upset them and apologize later."

"Wouldn't he– You-Know-Who, I mean– wouldn't he have stopped it?"

Malfoy shrugged elegantly. "Honestly, I couldn't say. My family had fallen from his good graces; it was clear he meant to humiliate us by the whole spectacle, and he wasn't above killing his own, even for sport… anyhow, mother was nearly in hysterics, father was at a total loss, so I had to take charge. You should have seen the looks on their faces when told them to start chopping onions." He shook his head with a proud smile. "An hour later we were serving French onion soup with croutons to the whole table. Of course, it was only a peasant dish, but honestly I think it was the best meal I've ever had– though whether that was due to my talent or my relief, I don't know."

Lavender smiled and replied graciously, "I'm sure both, Lord Malfoy." She was pleased to see him laugh at the overly-formal title.

"You flatter me, Lady Brunhill.* Ah, here we are."

The Hogwarts kitchens were arranged in such a way that, while the larger part of the room was taken up by the long house tables, the back of the chamber was well-prepared for cooking everything that the school could possibly need, from stews and soups to roasts and cakes. A large fireplace blazed cheerfully, warming several bubbling pots, and carved wooden cabinets opened to reveal ice-frosted interiors for holding chilled foods. Along the left wall stood numerous old stoves, lion-footed and gleaming brassy in the bright sunlight that filtered through the windows near the roof. House-elves hurried about their work, calling out orders to one another in their high voices. Several of them hurried over. "Miss Brown!" the foremost squeaked, dropping into a polite curtsy, and then she caught sight of the young man and her tiny elfin face grew cautious, eyes lowered. "Mister Malfoy," she said politely, though her voice was guarded.

"Good morning, Piper," Lavender greeted, kneeling down with a smile. "We were wondering if we mightn't borrow one of the stoves? Mr. Malfoy is going to teach me to cook, you see."

"Oh, yes, yes! Piper would be most happy to help Miss Brown learn cooking! Three stoves are open, there–" The elf pointed to three empty stoves at the end of the line, "–but the second is not working well, Miss Brown. It burned all of Piper's tarts yesterday!"

"Oh dear. Well, thank you for telling us."

"Of course, Miss Brown."

The house elf hurried off to help another roll out tart dough, and Draco and Lavender made their way over to the stove. "You're awfully polite to them," Draco noted, examining the stove; it was a bit smaller than his at home.

"Why shouldn't I be?"

He frowned, testing one of the dials; tiny blue flames sprang to life under the burner. "They're only house elves."

"They feel and think the same way we do," Brown replied stoutly. "There's no reason to treat them unkindly."

Draco looked up in surprise and then felt his face flush in guilt. "I… suppose I never thought of it like that," he admitted, dropping his gaze.

"Hmm." He glanced over to see Brown smiling warmly at him, instead of the cool, judgmental glare he had come to expect. "Well. There's a first time for everything, no?"

Draco smiled back. "Yes… I suppose so."

They looked at each other for a moment, each still smiling, before Draco suddenly realized what he was doing and cleared his throat, straightening up. "Including," he continued, "making your own lunch."

They gathered what they needed with the help of the elves, and with a wave of his wand Draco set the knives to chopping up carrots, onions, beef and potatoes. "Now the two most important skills to learn in cooking," he began, pouring about a tablespoon's worth of melted butter into the stockpot, "are how to brown meat and sauté onions. If you can do those two things, you can make just about any recipe in the book."

He showed her how to sauté the onions, and then added another tablespoon of oil. The knife ceased its chopping and scraped the cubes of beef into the pot. Lavender peered over the sizzling mixture with interest. "How do I know when it's finished?"

"Here." He handed her a wooden spoon and added, "Stir until the meat is brown on both sides." Tentatively Lavender began to stir the pot, holding the spoon like a tent stake. Malfoy laughed, though not unkindly. "It's not a murder weapon; here." He took her hand in his and adjusted her grip. "A bit like a quill, see?"

"Yes, I–" She stopped short as she looked up. Malfoy looked back, the tip of his slightly upturned nose just a few inches from her own. She watched as a faint pink blush crept into his pale cheeks. Neither moved.

"Miss Brown? Mr. Malfoy?"

Both jumped and turned, immediately distancing themselves; the elf Piper held out a glass jug full of chilled chicken broth. "For your soup, sir, miss," she squeaked pleasantly.

"Ah– yes– thank you," Malfoy mumbled, still red. He took the jug and set it on the counter, expertly avoiding Lavender's eyes.

They stood there in silence for several minutes while Lavender continued to brown the beef. When she couldn't put it off any longer she spoke up hesitantly: "I, um, I think it's done."

"Oh." He peered over the edge of the pot and nodded. "Yes, er– well done. Would you, er, pour in the broth?"

"Alright." She uncorked the jug and poured it out into the pot while Malfoy hurried to add the carrots and potatoes. "And now?"

"Now we wait. Shouldn't take more than, oh–" He checked his watch. "An hour or so."

"Oh." They stood there uncomfortably for a moment before Malfoy cleared his throat and gestured towards the empty tables. Together they sat down and waited. "So, um," Lavender began, "about the potions project…"

"Oh!" He looked relieved at the prospect of a neutral topic of conversation and quickly latched onto it. "You are still thinking about Wolfsbane, aren't you?"

"Yes, exactly. We ought to tell Slughorn we'll be working together–"

"Right, of course." He bit his lip. "You, er, you said you had a few ideas for improving it?"

"Oh, I-I don't know," she stammered, laughing a bit. "It's a terribly tricky potion, after all, and I wouldn't have the slightest idea how to try to work with it–"

"Well, that's why you have me," he said with a smile. "Go on."

"Well… my first thought was on how to make it less expensive," she admitted. "Originally I thought that there might be a way to use cheaper ingredients, but I've checked the properties of silver and moonstone and there's just no way the potion will work without them."

"Hmm. No, I don't think so."

"Well– well then I thought, maybe it's not the _ingredients_ that can be changed, but the _dosage._ Half the reason it's so expensive is that you have to take seven draughts of it, every month."

"Yes, I've wondered about that," the young man agreed, frowning. "Wouldn't it be simpler just to take a stronger dosage on the last day?"

Lavender shook her head. "The silver's the problem again; the further the potion boils down the less potent it becomes, and–"

"–And if you took the strongest dosage without having prepared yourself with weaker ones, the silver would poison you," Malfoy reasoned. "Of course. Still, it seems the more likely possibility…"

"Yes. But we'd have to be very careful." She shivered slightly. "Bad things can happen to werewolves mess with Wolfsbane, Malfoy. Very bad things."

"Well then." He smiled at her, with a fierce sort of pride that, deprived of its former arrogance, was actually somehow inspiring. "We're lucky we have two such brilliant people as ourselves to make sure they don't." Lavender smiled back, and they slipped into such easy conversation that they didn't notice the stew was done until it had begun to boil over an hour later.

"Here you are," Draco said, ladling her out a bowl. "Handmade lunch. Be careful; it's still hot." Lavender spooned out a bit from her bowl, blew on it, and then stuck it in her mouth. A moment later, her eyes went wide. Draco grinned. "Good?"

"This is incredible!" she exclaimed, swallowing the spoonful. "We _made_ this?"

"Mmm-hm." He raised his bowl in toast. "To good talent."

"Hmm." She clinked hers against his, golden eyes sparkling. "And good luck."

It was nearly two in the afternoon by the time Draco had walked her back to the Gryffindor common room, both laughing over a story of how Lavender had once sneaked in healing potions for Madame Pomfrey under the Carrows' scrutiny by pretending they were makeup products. "–She took one look at it, sniffed, and said it didn't match my complexion!" Lavender giggled. "I thought I was in for it for sure!"

"Alecto Carrow," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "As if she had an right to talk about beauty products." They stopped, having reached the portrait of the Fat Lady. "Well… here we are."

"Here we are," Lavender agreed. Both fell silent, equally unwilling, it seemed, to part.

"Well, er–" Draco coughed. "I still have some homework for alchemy, so…"

"Oh. Oh, right." She bit her lip. "Draco, I've had a– a really nice day. Best I've had in a while, actually, so…" She stood up on tip-toe and, much to his shock, pecked him on the cheek. "Thank you," she mumbled, embarrassed, and then spoke the password and slipped inside.

Draco stood there, gaping at the door. _Did she just–_ No. Impossible. There was no way that someone as kind and brave and _good_ as Lavender Brown could possibly have taken an interest in him, let alone _kissed_ him…

And yet she had. The burning sensation from where her lips had brushed his cheek was proof enough of that. He raised a hand to it, still staring at the portrait door in wonder.

The sound of a clearing throat drew his attention, and he looked up to see the Fat Lady staring down at him coolly. "I'm not going to stand here all day," she said with annoyance. "Are you going to go in or aren't you?"

"Oh– er, no– thank you–" He turned, still in a daze, and hurried off.

It was only after he'd crossed several hallways and descended a staircase that reality came back to him. A grin slowly spread across his face, and, throwing all caution and Malfoy stoicism to the winds, Draco let out a loud whoop of success.

* * *

Monday morning rose cold and gray; a thick layer of overcast had swept in over the weekend's clear blue weather, and a faint dreary snowfall was drifting down outside the windows. Students congregated in their first hour classrooms with yawns and tired chatter. The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was the sole exception; somehow (none of the trio knew how, for they hadn't breathed a word) it had gotten around that Lupin was back in the castle, with speculations ranging from the professor's return to his position to wild theories of him assembling an army of werewolf soldiers to defend the castle. "It wouldn't surprise me," Luna Lovegood said in her dreamy voice, twirling her hair around her finger. "I've heard that even Tame werewolves are incredibly strong."

"Come off it!" Ernie MacMillan said with a laugh. "Half the month Professor Lupin looks like he's just gotten over the flu!"

"Actually, Mr. MacMillan, Miss Lovegood is quite correct," a clear voice announced from the back of the classroom. Everyone turned to see none other than Professor Remus J. Lupin himself standing in the doorway, briefcase in hand. "Not about assembling an army, I'm afraid," he continued calmly, "but I daresay I'm not _quite_ as debilitated as I often appear."

Ernie flushed red and mumbled some sort of apology, and Lupin managed a thin smile before closing the door and striding forward. "Books and wands out, if you please!" he called back sharply, setting his briefcase down on his desk and picking up a piece of chalk. "Due to recent events, I have elected to jump ahead several units; today, we will be discussing–"

He wrote the word in broad white strokes before whirling around, setting the chalk down on the podium with a sharp _clack!_ "Werewolves," Lupin said bluntly, and now he was no longer smiling.

"Miss Lovegood, as it happens, was right on another matter," the professor continued, now a bit more quietly, but his voice all the more serious for it. "No doubt you are all aware of why I left the school; I have returned for the same reason: to offer what defense I can against Fenrir Greyback and his cohorts. But there is only so much I or any man can do. It is time for you to learn to defend yourselves."

Lupin turned and began to pace as he lectured, rolling his wand in his fingers. "As you might imagine, this is an area in which I have… shall we say, considerable expertise. More, I daresay, than your textbook, which contains a good deal of outdated if not entirely fictitious information in this matter. So! At the end of today's lesson, I will have all of you charm a copy of your notes to tuck into the book for next year's class. I advise you to write as neatly as possible. Would everyone please open your texts to page 254?" They did so, frowning in confusion, and he did the same. "Thank you. Now, I want everyone to follow my example." Lupin carefully took the corner of the first page of the chapter… and promptly tore it out of the book.

The students stared in shock. He raised an eyebrow. "Well, go on."

Hesitantly (and then, with great enthusiasm), each student ripped the page from the textbook. "Very good," the teacher said lightly. "Now, everyone take out your quills and cross out the second and third line on paragraph two of 255… and the first line in the third… and the second half of the first paragraph on 256, starting with 'wooden stake.' Very nice, thank you."

He closed the book and set it calmly on his podium. "We are going to be covering four different topics during today's lesson on werewolves:" He waved his wand at the board, and lines of neat cursive text appeared. "First, a brief review on lycanthropy and how to distinguish between a werewolf and an ordinary wolf in his transformed state. Second, proper precautions to be taken by werewolves and those in close proximity at the time of the full moon. Third, how to defend against a werewolf attack. And fourth- and this is a lesson I think your textbook was grossly in error to lack- what to do if you or someone you know is bitten."

The class glanced around at each other uncomfortably; clearly, this was a situation upon which they would rather not dwell for too long. Lavender Brown was staring down at the grain of the desk as if it held the secrets of the universe. Lupin noted this and added, "In my opinion, it is absolutely essential that you are all informed and aware of what measures to take should you ever be turned. Take it from me: it can happen to anyone. That being said, I assure you, it is perfectly possible to live a fulfilling life despite being infected, and I would like to extend the invitation to anyone who may have questions or uncertainties about this issue to come speak with me. It will, of course, be entirely confidential." He gave them a small smile, which at least a few students hesitantly returned, Lavender included, and then dove into the lesson.

The short dissertation on lycanthropy and how to identify a werewolf were practically straight out of the text (although the students had laughed at his method of "identification": "One: he's standing at my desk. Two, he's wearing my clothes. Three, his name is Professor Lupin…"), as well as basic precautions to be taken. He'd added a bit of his own information in there, largely trial-and-error tips on how to ensure the werewolf did not end up doing as much damage to himself as he would have done to others while transformed.

Then came the part on defense against a werewolf attack. Remus took a deep breath and reminded himself that simply because he was teaching them basic defense did not mean he was a traitor to his kind. "Alright," he said evenly. "Now, you'll have noticed I told you to cross out the bit about _'driving a wooden stake through the heart and burning the corpse.'_ Frankly, I think that's terrible advice; if you're close enough to him to consider staking him as a viable course of action, you're not in a good position." The class laughed nervously at that. "Of course your best option is to apparate away and return with auror reinforcements, but in some cases apparition may be either impossible or impractical. That is when you will need to know how to defend yourself."

Remus reached inside his robes. He felt his hand curl around the weapon's grip and took a deep breath. "This," he said, drawing the handgun out of his pocket, "is your surest defense against an attacking werewolf in his transformed state."

He set the gun down on the table. Most of the muggle-born students were wide-eyed; the wizarding children eyed it curiously. "What is it?" someone called out.

"It's a muggle firearm," Lupin explained. "An incredible invention, really, but highly dangerous in the wrong hands; it fires projectiles at incredibly fast speeds to injure or kill a target. It's quicker than a killing curse, though it requires some ability to aim. Most importantly, werewolves are highly allergic to silver; it can cause chemical burns, or even death in high quantities. A silver bullet- that's the name of the projectile- through the heart of a transformed werewolf will stop him almost immediately."

"Can't the killing curse do the same thing?" Ronald Weasley questioned.

Remus shook his head. "The killing curse doesn't affect us when transformed; it bounces off like a weak stunner. Ironically, this muggle invention is the most effective way of stopping the attack."

"So whose is that?" a girl inquired, nodding to the handgun.

"My wife's," he said simply.

The class went very silent.

"Thank goodness, she's never had to use it," he said, taking the firearm in hand, "but she knows how. As some of you may be aware, however, private citizens were banned from owning such weapons after a tragic attack in a muggle school two years ago."*

"What are we supposed to do, then?" one of the students called rather rudely from the back of the classroom.

Here Lupin paused and turned to the class, eyeing them all very gravely. The student who'd spoken out of turn fell silent.

"First of all," the werewolf said, "I want to make it very clear that what I am teaching you is to be used for defensive purposes _only._ If used improperly these spells could gravely harm others, and not just werewolves. And while the Ministry may be a bit uncertain as to my status as a human being, they are not at all uncertain in their response to the crimes of murder or assault. Do I make myself clear?"

The students' heads bobbed like those of puppets on strings, though how sincere they were, Remus couldn't be certain. He glanced towards Lavender Brown in an attempt at a wordless apology, but, much to his surprise, the girl looked back at him with blazing gold eyes. She gave him a small nod.

Emboldened by her courage, Remus cleared his throat and continued. "In the case of an attack you have three possibilities: flee, detain or fight. The first is usually accomplished by apparating; the second by casting a charm called the _argenti rete,_ the silver net." Lupin did a complicated sort of motion with his wand, as if he were drawing several crisscrossing squiggles, and then flourished the tip. Several students let out sharp noises and ducked out of the way as a glittering cloud shot past them. When it landed and wrapped itself around a spare chair, knocking it over with a loud clatter, the class saw that it was a thin yet strong silver net.

"A very useful spell," Lupin continued, "and often used by aurors in unfortunate cases of escaped Tames on full moons. But, as you can tell, it's a very tricky charm and takes some skill to use. The precise idea must be in place at the moment of casting; the threads are of steel coated in silver. Forget the steel and the net will break; forget the silver and the werewolf just keep fighting against it until he throws it off. Difficult to use, and not very time-effective. As such, in this class we will be focusing on the easier, if less ideal, method of defense: the _arcum argentum."_

Even as he said the words, he drew his wand back sharply to above his ear; there was a distinct _twang,_ like a bow being shot, and a blur of silver flashed through the air. An instant later, there was a hard _thump!_ from the back of the classroom, and the students turned to see a silver arrow lodged solidly in the door.

"The Silver Bow," their professor said, lowering his wand. "Developed in the early middle ages for a town that was suffering from monthly attacks. I want each of you to practice it until you are proficient at a moment's notice."

"Professor?" said Parvati Patil uncomfortably. "Are you sure you want us to…?"

He turned to her with somber gold eyes, and she faded off. "I want each of you to listen to me very carefully," Lupin said quietly, surveying the class. "You are adults. Many of you have fought in war. You know that life is not always clean and easy." He paused, and then continued, "When I was still too young to defend myself, Fenrir Greyback broke into my house, invaded my home, with the sole purpose of ending my life. He did not mean to turn me. He meant to destroy me." The werewolf nodded to the arrow lodged in the door. "It was too late to stop the curse, but if it had not been for my father and that charm, I would not be here today. So yes, Miss Patil, I want you to learn this spell– to protect both yourself and perhaps, someday, your family."

Nobody spoke; Harry glanced around and saw that several of the other students had gone very pale. Several more looked as if they might be sick.

"Stand up, all of you," Lupin said suddenly. Everyone scrambled to obey. "Line up on the left side of the room and draw your wands."

They did so; the professor instructed them all not to cross to the other side without his express permission and to be mindful not to fire without checking first for their fellow students, and then conjured up several wooden targets against the opposite wall. Soon the grim atmosphere faded away as the teenagers began to have fun with the assignment; silver arrows littered the floor where they'd bounced off the stone walls, and the professor even had to enchant the windows after Neville Longbottom sent an arrow shattering through the glass. "Nicely done, mate!" Ron said, clapping Harry on the back as the seeker's arrow stuck itself solidly in the center of the target.

"Honestly, I think I might be better off learning the net charm," Hermione said ruefully, after missing the target entirely for the tenth time. "I just can't get the hang of this!"

"Aw, your form is just off, that's all!" Ron dismissed. "Here, let me help you." Harry watched with no little amusement as the redhead stood behind his girlfriend, taking her hands into his. "Now what you wanna do is get a good stance," he began, guiding her as he described it, "feet shoulder-width apart and perpendicular to the target."

"Okay…" As she did so, a faint layer of russet sparks began to appear in the shape of a traditional bow, the arrow glowing brighter than the rest. "Like this?"

"Right. Now point the tip of the arrow on the thing you want to hit– don't move your left arm!" He quickly corrected her stance, much to Hermione's annoyance. "There, okay. Now remember, it's magic–"

"No, _really?"_

"–so you don't have to be perfect, you just have to really _think_ about the arrow, all the way until it hits the target. On three, alright? One– two–"

The arrow materialized in midair and, a moment after Ron said _three,_ punched so hard into the target that the wood shattered. Hermione let out a delighted gasp and turned to face him. "I did it!"

"Did it? You just about pulverized the target, 'Mione!" Ron exclaimed with a grin.

Harry was struggling to hold back his snorts of laughter when a voice behind him said lightly, "How are we doing over here?" He turned to see his uncle eyeing the trio with interest.

"I think they're doing alright," Harry replied with a smirk. Lupin chuckled and gave him a knowing smile before repairing the target with a wave of his wand.

After about an hour of practice, by which point most of the students were managing to at least consistently hit the target, Lupin called them to a halt. "Alright, everyone, we'll practice more on Wednesday," he said, vanishing the arrows and targets. "Everyone, get some water if you need it and then take a seat. We're not quite done yet."

The students obliged, still chattering cheerfully as they conjured up _aguamenti_ water into the glasses Lupin had provided. When everyone had settled back into their chairs and most of the students fallen quiet again, the professor resumed his lecture.

"My primary goal for this class is to train you to defend yourselves," he began, "But there may come a time when you will have to know how to… well, frankly, how to protect others from yourself." His eyes fell on Lavender once again; this time she didn't meet his eyes, but instead persisted in examining her cherry-wood wand. He drew a deep breath. "To this end, I would like to discuss the last part of today's lesson: the proper courses of action if you or someone you know is ever turned."

He set his wand down on the podium and began to pace. "When one is bitten, the most important thing to realize is that it is absolutely vital to get away from the wolf and any other potential victims; while it is more common to simply be infected, it is not unheard of for a transformed werewolf to go too far and actually kill his victims. Moreover, the transformation itself is not instantaneous; you have about sixty seconds between being bitten and for the disease to spread through the bloodstream to the rest of the body. During that time, it is your moral obligation to apparate, if you are able, to somewhere far from both the wolf and any human targets."

"What is it like?"

He looked over, startled. Ron Weasely flushed red and ducked his head. "Sorry," he murmured. "I-I shouldn't have…"

Remus bit his lip, and then answered honestly, "It's painful. And… unsettling, the feeling of losing your mind, your own self-consciousness, all against your will." He raised a hand to his shoulder unconsciously. "I distinctly remember feeling a sensation like fire, spreading from the bite through the rest of my body. Then, the transformation, and then… nothing. Flashes of memory, of vision, but nothing concrete." He looked to the rest of the class. "Without the Wolfsbane potion, a transformed werewolf has no control over his abilities. He- _we-_ will attack anyone in our way: friend, family, or foe. In that state, distinction is utterly impossible."

"So- professor- if- if we were to ever encounter y- a transformed werewolf…" Neville took a deep breath. "If we couldn't get away, or they were going to attack someone else-"

"You take him down," Lupin said bluntly.

The class was dead silent.

"So you see, it's not something to joke about," he said, tone softening a little as he walked forward. "To talk about 'hunting' or 'exterminating' werewolves is very misleading; to 'slay' a werewolf is to kill a human person, perhaps someone with a spouse or children. In extreme circumstances, it is absolutely permissible- and in fact, obligational- that you stop him from harming yourself or another victim, but it's not a matter to be taken lightly."

The classroom was painfully quiet. No one, not even Harry, seemed able to meet his gaze. Remus swallowed and looked to Lavender. His stomach twisted when he realized that her eyes were shut tight.

"Well," I think he said softly, "I think that about covers it for today. No homework for Wednesday; class is dismissed."

He had never seen a class leave so quickly or so quietly. As the students poured out the door, he followed and said, just loudly enough for another lycanthrope to hear, "Miss Brown? If I might have a word."

Lavender Brown remained behind as the classroom emptied out, staring down at the floor; Parvati and Padma each gave her a quick squeeze of the hand and then left, shutting the door behind them.

Once the door had clicked shut, Remus cleared his throat. "…Miss Brown, I'm sorry if anything I said today caused you discomfort," he said awkwardly. "I didn't mean–"

"No," she interrupted, surprising him, and her expression when she glanced up was firm. "It's fine. They… they need to know." She shivered, crossing her arms, and added: "I would never wish this on anyone. Not ever."

Remus nodded. "You are… an incredible young lady, Miss Brown. I commend you for it." He offered her a small smile and added, "You are far more of a Gryffindor than I ever was at your age. You can take pride in that."

Lavender smiled at that, a real smile. "Thank you, Professor."

"No thanks necessary. Well," he checked his watch, "I believe you have a transfiguration class to be getting to, no?"

"Yes. Have a good day, Professor."

"And you, Miss Brown."

* * *

The rest of the day passed in relative peace; when Remus returned home he was in high spirits, whistling _Otto the Hero_ as he opened the door. "Dora, I'm–"

He stopped short at the sight before him, and then added wryly, "–guessing you need some help."

One Nymphadora Lupin scowled up at him, the mushed peas on her face clashing horridly with her red hair. Teddy was squalling angrily, waving his fists, both his face and his hair the same shade of ripe tomato as his mother's. "Oho! You think this is funny, do you?"

"Well–"

"Here." She stalked over and shoved the spoon into his hands. _"You_ can feed your son, Mr. Joker; I've been putting up with this ever since you left and I am done!" She stalked off towards the bathroom.

"Where are you going?" Remus called.

She whirled around, eyes flashing scarlet; Remus jumped. _"To get the mushed peas out of my hair, you oblivious cretin!"_ She stormed into the bathroom, made to slam the door, and then thought better of it and closed it quietly behind her. Remus heard the tap water start to run and sighed, sitting down in the seat across from the high chair.

"So you've been a troublesome boy today, have you, Teddy?" he murmured, scooping the admittedly unappealing green mush into the spoon. "You do realize that has an effect on your old tad too, don't you?" He lifted the spoon to Teddy's mouth, but the baby only fussed. Remus grimaced. "Please, Teddy? Here comes the broomstick! Whoosh! Whoo–"

Teddy screamed loud enough to make Remus clap his hands over his sensitive ears and knocked the bowl of peas off the little table. His father huffed, beginning to grow irritated himself– and then something white and gleaming caught his eye. He stood up as Teddy continued to wail, peering closely at his son's open mouth. There, sticking sharp out of the pink gums, were the tips of two sharp fangs.

"Oh, Teddy," Remus sighed, picking his son up out of the highchair; Teddy snuffled and continued to cry, his hair shifting from red to a miserable dusty brown, quite unlike his normal chocolate curls. "Here…" He summoned a cloth from the kitchen with his hand and murmured, " _Aguamenti frigus."_

Immediately the rag became sopping wet with ice water; he squeezed it out and then tucked the end into his son's cherubic mouth. Teddy resisted for a few moments, and then appeared to realize how good the cold rag felt on his gums and began to suck on it, his hair fading from brown to a cheerful blue.

"How'd you do that?" He turned to find Dora studying him, scrubbing her ear out with a washcloth. Remus raised a questioning eyebrow and she added grumpily, "Don't ask. How did you get him to stop crying?"

"He's teething. My mam told me once that she used to do this for me when I was a baby."

"Teething?" Dora walked over with an expression of surprise. "I didn't even notice…"

"Hm. I'm not surprised; it's only his fangs thus far…" He flushed as he realized what he'd said and cleared his throat. "Incisors, I mean. It's his incisors."

Dora frowned, touching his shoulder. "You know you don't have to do that around me, Remus. I'm not worried."

"I know. I just…" He looked down to the happily sucking baby in his arms and swallowed. "I don't want him to hear it."

His wife nodded. "Um… I'm sorry I called you an oblivious cretin," she mumbled, ducking her head.

Remus chuckled. "Apology accepted, Dora. Had a long day, then?"

"Like you wouldn't believe." Together they sat down at the table, Remus setting Teddy back in the highchair and murmuring grace before cutting into his beef-and-potatoes pie. As he stuck a piece in his mouth, his wife added, "Oh, by the way: a letter arrived from you today. Muggle paper, though– and delivered by an _eagle."_

Remus sat up straighter. "An eagle?"

"Yep. Know anything about that?"

"Yes; it's the reply from the Shadowsmoke alpha. May I see it?"

Dora summoned a letter from the counter and handed it to him. As claimed, the envelope was definitely the white flimsy sort of paper muggles used. Remus tore it open to find that the letter within had been written on a scrap of dirty blue-lined paper.

Dora watched her husband read silently for several moments, before her curiosity got the better of her: "What does it say?"

"Hmm… Pitchpelt– that's the alpha– he says he's heard nothing of the sort and issued no such orders. That worries me."

"Why?"

Remus looked up with a troubled gaze. "Because I never insinuated that he did. I didn't want to cause offense." He returned to reading the letter with a frown. "But he's said that he'll be making inquiries into the matter…" Brow still furrowed, he folded the letter again. "Dora, could you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"Put the office on the alert. If anyone reports an attack next full moon, especially by a black-furred werewolf… well, let's just say both of us will have a problem on our hands."

His wife nodded grimly. "Will do, love."

Teddy's cooing drew their attention; Remus looked over to see the boy reaching for his father's pie with his chubby baby hands. "Ahh, the boy knows what's good!"

"Remus, he can't eat solid food yet!" Dora scolded as he spooned several lumps of his pie onto the side of his plate.

"I know, I know. _Conmisceo!"_ The beef and potatoes immediately pureed themselves. Teddy squealed and clapped his hands as his father lifted the spoon to his mouth. Remus laughed and made broomstick sounds, his hazel eyes sparkling with joy. And Dora merely sat back and watched, smiling softly to herself. Despite everything, all the worries and fears– yes, despite everything, this moment, right here and now, was perfect.

* * *

The icy wind bit at the man's ears as he hurried the cold London streets, shivering. The guard coming on-duty gave him a curt nod. "Evening, Duskhide. Anything of interest?"

"Nothing. All's clear." There was very rarely anything of note, but the alpha insisted on having a guard stationed at all times. Whenever the pack moved, there was always the risk that the local muggle gang would see it as an encroachment on their territory and try to start something. There was never any real worry– muggles had guns, but werewolves were stronger and tough as nails– but a slaughter would draw attention from the muggle police and the pack would have to move again. Seeing as it was winter and they'd just settled down into this den– the hollowed-out husk of an old, charred factory that nearly burn down in the forties– alpha didn't want to move again so soon, and Pitch-pelt agreed.

"Good to know. By the way, Alpha wants to speak with you."

Pitchpelt wanted to speak to him? Duskhide was immediately set on his guard; the alpha rarely spoke to his subordinates unless giving commands. "Alrigh', I'll be up in a minute. Thanks for the notice, Iceclaw."

The other guard nodded again and began his rounds, and Duskhide slipped inside.

The majority of the pack was huddled around a few fires that had been started in the corner of the old factory floor, the smoke hanging thick in the air and drifting out slowly through a broken window near the ceiling. Most were asleep; three were warming themselves next to the biggest blaze and combining their earnings from their begging shifts. Soon the "lifters" – the petty thieves who stole their daily bread– and the hunters, who caught squirrels and alley cats where they could, would be in with whatever they'd managed to scrounge for the evening meal. Duskhide passed by them and headed up the metal staircase to what remained of the old foreman's office. As he walked along, whistling, he kept his hands stuffed inside his pockets, one resting on a thin wooden stave. Only about half of the pack were wizards, and he was one of them.

Alpha Pitchpelt was waiting for him in the observation loft, a windowed room overlooking the gutted floor and the only part of the factory left undamaged by the fire or centuries of neglect. Duskhide dropped to a knee in submission and then rose. "Alpha. Iceclaw said you wanted to speak with me?"

Alpha Pitchpelt was a young man in his early thirties, pale and scarred, with lank black hair that fell over his yellow eyes. By his sallow appearance and small stature Duskhide thought that he had once been a relatively thin man, but since having turned feral he had grown bulkier, broad-shouldered and strong-jawed. The edges of sharp white fangs hung down over his thin lips. He leaned back in an old chair against the wall, eating the meat off a roasted chicken. "Duskhide," he mused, kicking his feet up onto the rotting desk. "How long has it been since you were turned?"

"Three years, Alpha."

"Three years." He pulled a strip of meat off of a bone and then crushed it between his teeth, sucking out the marrow. "Why did you join us again?"

"I was an orphan. A penniless drunk, living on the streets with nowhere to go. The Dark Lord promised me power, promised me a pack."

Pitchpelt nodded. "And have we given you power, Duskhide?"

"Yes, Alpha," he vowed, "More than was ever given to those worthless humans he called his followers. More still, since you let me turn Feral off that muggle boy."

"Good." The alpha leaned forward; the legs of his chair hit the rotting wooden floor with a loud thud. "You have been loyal, Duskhide. Very loyal. Tell me, what do you know of _Calon-Arian?_ You were a student of his, weren't you?"

Duskhide's eyes widened slightly in surprise; to dare call the Zenith Alpha by his pack name…! Still, he said nothing of his alpha's insolence and replied carefully, "Yes, Alpha, I was. He taught during my seventh year."

"And what do you remember of him?"

"He was… very intelligent. Very powerful, even among the wizards, though he didn't look it. And… he taught the class how to defend against wolves." Alpha Pitchpaw released a low growl, and Duskhide dared to question: "If you will pardon my rudeness, Alpha, why do you ask?"

"That is none of your concern," Pitchpelt snarled. His subordinate lowered his head, and he nodded to the door "You have been very helpful, Duskhide. Extra rations for you tonight. You may go."

The subordinate dropped to a knee again and then left. As the door closed behind him, Pitchpelt leaned his chair back against the wall, musing to himself. Yes, he had heard that _Calon-Arian,_ the wolf with the Silver Heart, was a man of great intelligence and insight… and already, he seemed suspicious. Blast that muggle student; if only he had died when he was supposed to…

Well, Pitchpelt thought to himself, no use crying over rotten meat. If he was going to withstand the authority of the Zenith Alpha he would need support. But how to get it? With the other packs still loyal to Silverheart, he would be severely punished if he were to outwardly contradict orders…

Like a vision it came to him. With a savage smirk, he pushed his chair down again onto four legs and opened the top drawer of the old desk. Within lay several sheets of lined paper and a handful of cheap muggle pens. But none of those would do; no, if he was going to make amends with the rightful Zenith Alpha, whom he had betrayed on behalf of a mere trinket, he would need to do so groveling on his paws and knees. Within a small, soft box at the back of the drawer he found what he was looking for: a blue fountain pen. He removed his last sheet of wizarding parchment and, after a pause, began to address the letter:

 _Greetings to my most fearsome lord, the Alpha Anterth Fenrir Cefn-Llwyd,_

 _I am writing regarding the matter of that imposter and dog, the plaything of the humans: that Mutt who bears the detestable name of Lupin…_

* * *

 **A/N: I'm sorry! I know it's late, and not my best. But there was finals and then Christmas Break… anyhow, I do hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a review! Merry Christmas, and** _ **pax et bonum!**_ **–FFcrazy15**

 *** _Brunhill =_ Brown's Hill. Lords and ladies in antiquity were not the lord of their own name but of their estate; Malfoy Manor just happens to be the same as the surname of its owners.**

 ***This is in reference to the tragic Dunblane school shooting of 1996, where an armed gunman killed 16 children and a teacher in a Scottish primary school. This was followed by the 1997 Firearms (Amendment) Acts which banned most handguns in England, Scotland and Wales. I sincerely apologize to any British readers if the reference came off as heavy-handed, but I thought I ought to include it considering how close in time the setting of the piece is to when the shooting occurred.**


	23. Chapter 23: The Lai of Melion

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here. The Lai of Melion is a genuine French werewolf legend by Marie de France; I owe my knowledge of it to a translation of her works done by Dr. Helen Nicholson (Les Lais anonymes des XIIe et XIIIe siècles _, ed Prudence M. O'Hara Tobin (Geneva, 1976). Translation copyright 1988, 1999, by Helen Nicholson.)_

QuoteMyFoot: Don't apologize! Your criticism had some very nice points; honestly "Silver and Gold" was a tough chapter to work out and by the end I was rushing it a bit. You're right, those both would have been very good ideas. It's a bit late to change that now, unfortunately, but you ought to give yourself a pat on the back for your insight. Thanks for the review!

Warnings: a slightly disturbing nightmare (first section, right below this); references to depression.

Note: I'm not a grief counselor, and I have never directly experienced the death of someone I love, let alone my own child, so I have no idea how a mother would react to losing her son. I know that I've probably understated Molly's grief here and I'm sorry for that, but I'm not sure how to do that sort of tragedy justice without upending the whole plot of the story. Please accept my apologies.

* * *

 _–Shafts of bright moonlight split the room, pooling pale and silver on the floor and the quilt over his legs–_

Eyelids fluttering. Fingers twitching.

 _–A putrid smell of blood and rotting meat pervaded the room, and with it a low, bone-chilling growl–_

Chest heaving. Beads of sweat rolling down pale shoulders, over scars old and new. The head jerked to the side, flinching away.

 _–The gold eyes gleamed out of the darkness, and he screamed as a monstrous wolf lunged from the shadows:–_

"NO!"

Remus shot up in bed, looking around wildly. Dora jerked awake beside him and grabbed her wand, but there was no one. Slowly she turned to her husband.

Remus was sitting upright in the bed, gasping for air. Tremors raced through the muscles under his skin, and is eyes had gone a poisonous luminescent yellow in the darkness, staring at something she couldn't see. "Remus?" she whispered, afraid to speak any louder lest he lash out in unwitting panic. He flinched, ever muscle taut, and then seemed to relax as he realized where he was.

"Dora," he sighed, turning to look at her. "So… it was just a dream."

She nodded uncertainly, unsure what to do or say. She never was in these situations.

Remus let out a low sigh and rolled his shoulders, checking his watch. Just hardly six in the morning. Outside the window to the east he could see the sky growing to a turquoise blue at the horizon. He ran a hand through his hair, still damp with the cold sweat, and swung his legs out over the bed. "Where are you going?" Dora asked tiredly.

"No point in going back to sleep now. Don't think I could manage it if I tried, anyhow." He stood up and took his folded clothes off the chair from where he had laid them out the night before. "I'm going to have some breakfast."

"I'll join you," Dora said with a yawn, moving to get out of the bed.

"Really, Dora, it's fine; you need your rest for work."

"Are you sure? I don't mind…"

Remus smiled at her, but it was a thin smile. "I'm sure. Go back to sleep, Dora."

She eyed him doubtfully, but apparently the sire call of sweet sleep was too great a lure to resist, so she gave him a quick peck on the lips and then lay back down and drifted off. Remus watched her a moment longer, and then slipped out the door into the sitting room of the apartment. He dressed in the lavatory, lit the fire, and made himself a cup of tea and toast with jam. And then he sat.

A strange shiver rushed through him as he stared at the small blaze flickering in the hearth. For a moment a vision of golden eyes in the blackness flashed through his mind and then faded. He shuddered again and took a drink of his tea. He wouldn't think about it. It was over now, it had been over thirty-four years ago. He was a man, a father to a child of his own. And if Greyback ever came for his boy, well, Remus Lupin XIII would not hesitate to do his bit for the old family business, lycanthrope himself or no.

But these were poisonous thoughts, ugly thoughts. Remus shook his head and finished off the last few bites of his toast, trying to dismiss the thoughts by force of will. It didn't work; the visions swirled around his head like a swarm of angry bees, begging for his acknowledgement and then stinging him with regret the moment he did. Downing the rest of his tea Remus stood and, without even really thinking about it, threw his cloak over his shoulders.

Dora would be fine, he told himself as he locked the door to the apartment behind him. The babysitter would be there before she left for work and he'd left a note explaining where he'd gone so hopefully she wouldn't be too worried. He just needed to be alone for a while, Remus decided. He didn't want to talk, he just wanted to be, to do, to move around. And Dora, for all her wonderful gifts, was not very good at being quiet.

His plans to be alone didn't work for more than two minutes. At the foot of the steps he was greeted, much to his surprise, by a weary-looking Professor Minerva McGonagall. "Remus! I was just coming up to see you," she said, blinking several times too many, as if she hadn't slept well the night before. Remus studied her with slight concern; her graying hair hung down her back in a long braid, which he knew from having received a fair few detentions as a boy in the wee hours of the morning was how she wore it to bed, and she looked as if she'd dressed in a hurry. "Your sixth-year class has been canceled for the morning."

"Canceled? Whatever for?"

She sighed and adjusted her glasses. "Last night during his astronomy class Firenze noticed that one of the students was acting more irritable than usual. Not knowing much about wizarding diseases, he didn't think much of it until one of the other students realized that the boy's eyes had turned green."

Remus's eyebrows rose. "There's a greeneye infection going around?"

"Apparently so. Unfortunately, that particular lesson had used a high-grade telescope– they were examining the rings of Saturn, I believe– and by the time Firenze realized what had happened, they had all already used the telescope. To make matters short, Madame Pomfrey and I have quarantined the sixth-year class to the hospital wing; from what we can see we've made the right choice, though I must say I don't envy Poppy for it."

"Mm. Spending the day in room of forty hormonal teenagers growing continuously more jealous and spiteful can't be a picnic, no."

McGonagall gave him a bare smile and checked her watch. "I promised Molly I'd have tea out at the Burrow today, and I've a board meeting after that, so I think it's best if I try to catch at least an hour or two of sleep. Do have a good day, Remus."

"And you, Professor."

They parted ways at the stairwell, McGonagall heading up to her apartment, Remus down a hallway towards one of the many school exits. The icy rush of air on his cheeks as he pushed open the door out onto the green was deliciously refreshing, and he stepped outside, throwing the hood of the cloak over his head. His breath froze into a white mist as he crossed the frosty green to the Forbidden Forest.

The wood was quiet and still, aside from the occasional hoot of an owl and the soft crunch of frosted grass underfoot. Remus had long learned to walk quietly among the snow-drifted trees, and it was for this reason, among others, that he could safely pass through this forest where others dared not trod. As he walked his thoughts drifted back over many winters walking through these ancient trees; brief glimpses of gleaming drifts, sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight, and glassy brooks glittering white on the surface against the black depths passed through his mind like memories of a dream; he saw once more in perfect clarity the lean, white body of the Stag, felt the snuffling wet nose of the Dog, heard the whispered scurrying of the Rat. The memories of those magical, almost fairytale-like nights had been some of the happiest of his youth, a childhood that had spanned the strange gap between ordinary adolescent matters (mooning after girls, complaining about homework, sneaking around under an old Cloak with James Potter's knobby elbow shoved uncomfortably between his ribs) and bloody scenes more suitable to a horror story.

An image flashed through his mind: a very young boy in a photograph, giggling up at the photographer, green eyes glinting in the sunlight and sandy brown hair tousled by the wind coming in off the sea. A bitter ache panged his heart as it always did when the memory of the photograph came to mind. He had first found it when he was eight years old, tucked away in an album in his parents' hope chest beneath a box of old Christmas cards. He'd stared at it for hours, mesmerized. _This is what happiness looks like,_ he'd told himself. _This was when I was whole._

Remus shook his head, trying to clear out the bitter memories. Sulking and despair was of no use, he knew, but it was strangely alluring. Reflections swirled through his mind, and with them the deep, suffocating feeling of depression in his throat. He closed his eyes and breathed in, trying to calm the burning memories with better ones. New images came then: his mother's pale, slender hands, handing him a ceramic mug of thick hot chocolate. His father's eyes, deep blue, the ever-present regret falling away for a moment in a rush of pride as his son held out a prefect's badge. Four boys stifling their laughter as they escaped through the halls under a silvery cloak. A woman with hair the color of dawn, kissing the brow of a cream-cheeked infant.

Remus opened his eyes to find himself smiling. Yes, these were the good memories. These were the core elements of who he was, not the voices who whispered their lies, accusing him of depravity and corruption. Greyback had wounded the flesh and so doing had wounded the heart, but he had not destroyed his victim's true nature: son, father, husband, friend. Man, not beast.

He was startled from his thoughts by the suddenly crack of a twig breaking somewhere in the trees, and instinctively he stopped, withdrawing into the shadows of an ancient gnarled oak. He drew his wand silently and scanned the woods around him for any sign of motion. Nothing… nothing…

There! A shift in shadows and a gleam of gold caught his eyes; he stared hard at where the glimmer had originated and slowly, as if recognizing the trick in an optical illusion, the full figure came into view.

Remus laughed and stepped out from behind the trees, stowing his wand. "Are you going to shoot me, Firenze?" he called, chuckling. "I warn you, I won't taste very good!"

The shift in shadows came again, more dramatically than before, as Firenze lowered his bow and stepped out from between the trees, smiling slightly in the centaur fashion. He bent his torso low in a traditional bow, and the man inclined his head. "Greetings, lord of the wood," the centaur said formally, rising from his bow.

"Greetings, master of the arrow and the stars," Remus replied. He had been only twelve when the herd of the Forbidden Forest had first addressed him as "young lord," and had always felt embarrassed by the title, though he accepted it without reproach, for he knew it was a centaur's way of showing respect. "And a good morning. I imagine you've been visiting the herd? How is everyone?"

Firenze seemed to appreciate the question. "Quite well, thank you. It has been a warm winter thus far and the hunting is good." He gestured through the sparkling drifts. "I know that you step lightly in these woods and will not scare the game. Perhaps we might walk together?"

"The company would be very welcome, thank you."

The pair took to walking through the snowy woods, neither speaking. After some time Firenze said, "You have been walking much in these woods of late, my lord. Bane is not pleased."

Remus chuckled dryly. "Does anything please Bane?"

Firenze's mouth twitched just slightly into a stoic smile. "Not much, no."

"Why is he upset? I haven't gone near your home." Firenze hesitated, and Remus sighed. "So even Bane believes that I am threat to the herd?"

"Though you have not intruded into our glens, too many of your kind have done so as of late. And it is not unheard of for a wolf-shifter to attack a centaur." When Remus did not reply, Firenze added, "Apologies for any offense, my lord."

"None taken. I can understand his reserve… what does Lady Maura think?"

"Hnn… Lady Maura has always been fond of you, as you know, and as such the herd trusts you. Bane will abide by her decisions, but there is no doubt that some among our number have become restless." The centaur shook his head. "The mares more than anyone are raising cries. They fear for their foals."

"I understand." Firenze looked over and saw that the man's hazel eyes had grown dark. "I, too, am worried for my family."

They both stopped suddenly at the sound of rustling in the branches; Remus drew his wand again and Firenze nocked his bow, both aiming at a screen of snow-blanketed branches not far off. For a tense moment there was silence, and then, softly at first and then louder, laughter began to ring out– sweet, musical laughter, like the sound of water trickling over rocks. Firenze immediately relaxed, and Remus, following his lead, lowered his wand.

"I'm afraid I am no hind for your bow, Firenze," the lovely voice called. Out from behind the trees there stepped what Remus first assumed to be a beautiful young lady carrying a basket on her arm, but he soon noted that her torso was joined to the body of a white Eriskay pony. He glanced over and noted with surprise that Firenze had gone pink at the cheeks, though he stepped forward and bowed to the filly. "M-my apologies, Miss Shona," the other centaur said. "I was not aware that you had left the glen."

"I came to gather wintergreen berries." She suddenly noticed Remus and did a graceful sort of half-bow which he knew to be a centaur's version of a curtsy. "The lord of the wood."

"Miss Shona," Remus greeted politely.

The filly smiled, and then turned to the colt. Firenze's cheeks were still stained pink. "Well, I– I suppose I'd best be along."

"Yes," Firenze agreed hastily, "Yes, I as well. Ah– good day, Miss Shona."

"And you Firenze." She cantered away, vanishing into the trees. When Remus looked up, he found Firenze still staring at the spot where she had disappeared, blue eyes wide and dazed. Remus grinned.

"What a charming young lady," he said, examining his gloved hands idly and glancing up at the centaur with twinkling eyes.

"Yes," Firenze murmured distantly. "Yes, quite charming." He didn't manage to tear his eyes away from the spot until after Remus had strode ahead, letting out peals of booming laughter.

* * *

"Oh, Minerva, you look a fright! Come in, come in; we've got hot water boiling for tea and oatmeal…"

Minerva McGonagall had to refrain from releasing a deep sigh of relief upon stepping into the Burrow. From the day sweet little Molly and Arthur Weasley, newlyweds with a baby on the well on the way, had first invited her 'round for tea, the Burrow had always felt like home to the old professor. Of course, then she had still been young herself, just thirty-five, yet even then having long despaired of ever marrying and having children of her own. Nearly forty years later, the headmistress could still recall watching the glowing and round-bellied Molly Weasley, all vibrant redheaded youth and new motherhood, and feeling bitterly envious.

Now, of course, all such jealousy had long passed. They were old, Minerva thought ruefully, both of them, and had seen too much to envy anyone. The headmistress's eyes fell to the clock where Fred Weasley's spoon still pointed resolutely to _home_ and felt sympathy tighten in her heart.

"Let me take your cloak, dear, you just sit down…" The ever-maternal Molly swept Minerva's green cloak into her arms without waiting for an answer and went to go hang it on the hook beside the door. Minerva gratefully accepted the offer, sinking into a cushy armchair with a sigh that spoke of old joints and angsty teenagers. Molly, herself a veteran in such matters, regarded the older woman with sympathy.

"Long night?"

"A greeyeye infection," Minerva groaned, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the chair.

"Ooh. Nasty, that. Class?"

"Sixth-years. I haven't slept all night."

Molly winced sympathetically. Green-eye was bad enough when it was small children (the memory of Ron and Ginny screaming at each other, red-faced, over a single painted building block still made her ears ring) but an epidemic among teenagers was bound to be brutal. "Sounds like you need a cuppa."

"Nnnng."

Molly had to stifle a chuckle to herself at the sight of her old professor nearly passed-out on the chair, too exhausted even to reply, and took the kettle off the stove. By the time she'd poured out two cups of earl grey and brought them over to the chair, McGonagall had managed to rouse herself a bit and was sitting up straighter to receive the cup. "Thank you, Molly."

"It's nothing, really."

Minerva glanced up at her with a grateful smile. Many people, following the end of the war, had expected Molly Weasley to crumble and waste away with grief: how, they had wondered amongst themselves in worried whispers, could a woman whose very nature was rooted in motherhood possibly withstand the death of her son, the child of her womb? And indeed, Molly had grieved, and grieved deeply; Minerva even now could see the heavy weight of sorrow on her shoulders, and she suspected that the deepest dregs of the woman's loss had been shared only with the one soul who could truly understand: her husband.

But Molly had not crumbled, just as Minerva had known she wouldn't. Those others had not known the young wife and mother who had been stricken by the anguishes of the first war: the rejection by her parents, the loss of her friends, even the death of her two beloved brothers, such men whose likeness Minerva had not seen until George and Fred Weasley had crossed the Hogwarts threshold. She had born up them and she would bear up now. No, Molly, who was mother and wife through and through, had accepted the agony of loss without fighting it, and had somehow risen and gone on, carrying her lost son in her heart as dearly as ever.

Still, Minerva felt that as her friend she had a duty, and so she asked gently, "Molly. How have you been doing? Are you– well, 'alright' isn't the right word, but…"

Molly understood and returned the question with a sad smile. "We're managing," she replied honestly. "Some days better than others. It's… hard." She looked down to her teacup and ran her thumb along the porcelain handle. "But we're getting through."

Minerva nodded. "Where's Arthur?"

"Out in the shop. He spends a lot of time out there– thinking, I suppose– but he always comes back to me. I don't know what I'd do without him." She suddenly realized what she'd said and looked up, embarrassed. "Oh, Minerva… I'm so sorry, I didn't mean–"

The headmistress raised a hand. "It's alright, Molly." She mirrored the other woman with a pained half-smile of her own. "We've all got our burdens."

Molly nodded knowingly. She took a sip of her own tea and studied the way that the professor frowned down at the steaming cup, blinking a bit too rapidly. "Minerva," she questioned, concerned, "are you sure you oughtn't go get some rest? I won't be offended."

"There'd be no point in it," Minerva sighed, rubbing her temples with her free hand. "I have a board meeting in an hour."

"Oh, you poor dear."

"I'll be alright– so long as I can manage to keep from shouting down Governor Hargrave, anyhow." She brightened slightly, and Molly saw a mischievous glint come into her green eyes. "Besides, I think I'll quite enjoy seeing his reaction when I introduce our new financial advisor."

"Oh? Why so?" The headmistress took a prim sip of her tea, and Molly eyed her suspiciously. "Minerva McGonagall, what did you do?"

"Nothing outside of my position," she replied with a slight shrug, setting down her cup. "I simply hired a very qualified young man for the job, a Mr. Theron Lowell."

Molly's eyes went wide at the name. "Theron Lowell?" she repeated. "The one who used to own–"

"Mm-hm."

"And the one who Remus–"

"Precisely."

Molly gawked at her, and then slowly began to grin. "You rascal!" she exclaimed, chortling. "You absolute shrew, Minerva!"

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," McGonagall said stoically, though her mouth was twitching against her will.

Molly cackled, standing up and bustling over to the cauldron in which the oatmeal had begun to bubble. "Ooh, I wish I could be there! It's high time someone put that prejudiced, chauvinistic oaf in his place; I remember when we were in school together he used to tell me if I were sensible I'd find a 'man with means' instead of seeing a Weasley. Hmmf! I wouldn't have gone with him if he'd owned half the gold in Gringotts. You give him hell for me, Minerva!"

"Oh, I'll certainly do my best."

"Hullo, what's all this?" A pair of bespectacled eyes topped with silver-streaked red hair peeked in through the window. "Professor! What a nice surprise!"

"It's not a surprise, you numpty!" Molly scowled and smacked the top of her husband's head lightly with a dishtowel. "I told you she was coming over three days ago! That was why you took the morning off, or don't you remember?"

"Oh. Er, no, dear," Arthur said sheepishly. "Be right round." Molly gave a long-suffering sigh that didn't quite match her fond smile as she watched her husband tramp in through the door, blushing with embarrassment; Minerva watched warily as he set down a pair of large-looking boxes.

"Oh, Arthur, not those again…"

"I can't leave them out in the shop, Molly; the electronics will rust…"

"Are those speakers?" Minerva inquired, frowning at the boxes.

"Don't get him started," Molly warned, but Arthur looked delighted.

"They are indeed! However did you guess?"

"I had an old muggle radio as a girl," the witch said with a frown, inspecting them. "But there are no dials… How do they work without a signal?"

Arthur beamed. "Well that's what I'm trying to figure out! Now apparently the trick is to plug them _in_ somewhere on a muggle radio, and these make the sound much louder! The trouble, of course, is trying to figure out how to get them to connect to a magical radio…" He waved his wand at them half-heartedly.

That was a mistake; without warning, a loud, poppy drumbeat and distinctly American voice blasted out of the speakers at full volume. Minerva and Molly clapped their hands over their ears. "Arthur!" Molly bellowed.

"Sorry! Sorry!" He waved his wand again; bright blue sparks flashed out of the speakers and then the song went dead.

Arthur turned to them, wincing sheepishly. Molly was glaring at him. "That one's been playing a lot lately," he offered, as if in way of apology. "Seems to be something about a 'smooth criminal.' I don't really see the appeal, but the muggles must like it."

"Do they now?" Molly said, voice dangerously calm. Minerva had to stifle a laugh.

"Er… well, yes…"

"Arthur?"

"…Yes, dear?"

"Put them. _Away."_

Minerva hid a chortle behind a sip of tea as Arthur blushed red and bustled out the door with stereo in arm, mumbling apologies all the while. Molly turned back to her guest with a sigh. "I'm terribly sorry, Minerva."

"Oh, no, it's fine." She smiled slightly. "Same old Arthur. Some things never change."

"Yes…" Molly smiled sadly, looking around the decidedly empty house. Mementos of her children hung upon every wall, were scratched into every doorpost and even the top of the very table at which they sat. There was the bench where Bill had taught Ginevra to tie her shoe laces; there, the chair where Percy had sat doing his summer homework hour after hour in the lazy afternoon sun; and there, the burn on the wall from one of the twins' very first fireworks, which had covered Freddy's gleeful little face in soot…

"Yes," she repeated softly, "And some things do."

And Minerva understood.

* * *

"…And now to matters of the budget." Governor Hargrave turned to look at her with a very self-satisfied expression. "As Minerva has not managed to locate a financial advisor for this board, I once again move to raise student tuition by fifteen percent."

The other governors glanced about and began to mutter among themselves, many clearly uncomfortable with the position. Struggling to keep the smug smile from her lips, McGonagall cleared her throat and rose to her feet. "Actually, Governor Hargrave," she said calmly, quieting the room, "I _have_ managed to find a financial advisor."

Hargrave stared, incredulous. "I beg your pardon?"

"I took your advice and hired an advisor for the school. His position will become permanent, pending the board's approval; I think you'll all be quite pleased with my selection." She turned to Hargrave and smiled coolly.

"And where, exactly, is this advisor?" the governor said testily.

"I asked him to wait at home. I thought, perhaps, that having such a renowned figure at our proceedings might be cause for distraction; he's a rather well-known man, you see."

"Oh?" Hargrave's face was very swiftly turning a shade of red more appropriate to a beetroot than a governor.

"Indeed. Would you like me to invite him in?"

"By all means," the chairman replied, sounding as if he meant quite the contrary.

Minerva paced over to the fire and threw in a handful of green powder, murmuring the address quietly; it would not bode well for the Lowells, she knew, if word of their location somehow got back to Greyback. A moment later Theron's head appeared in the flames.

"Hullo, Professor. Is it time?"

"It is. You should be able to step right through; it's open on our side."

Theron's face disappeared, and a moment later his form spun into view as the green flames died away. He straightened his suit as he stepped out of the hearth, brushing ash off his shoulders. "Chairman, governors of the board," McGonagall said cordially, turning back to face the stunned table, "I would like to introduce you to Mr. Theron Lowell, former CEO of Cauldrons and Company. He has offered to work for us for a very modest salary, as a gift to the school."

"A pleasure to meet you all," Lowell said politely.

The council continued to stare. Several of them, Minerva noted with apprehension, seemed even to be frightened.

Theron sensed the same and glanced over at her a moment, before clearing his throat. "As it happens, I have been blessed today to come as the bearer of good news." He set his briefcase on the table and removed a manila folder, opening it up to reveal several important-looking bank statements, all bearing the Gringotts stamp. "As many of you know, Gringotts has been working very hard over the last several months to verify and reopen several accounts which were frozen during the war."

"We were aware. What of it?" said Governor James O'Breen, apparently the first to regain his composure in the face of the werewolf's presence.

"As you could probably have guessed, among those accounts were included those of the Potter Estate. I received an account statement this morning informing me that the last of their accounts have been unfrozen."

"But why would Hogwarts receive notices regarding a private account?" said Governor Cross, surprised.

"Because," Theron replied, removing a document from the folder and sliding it into the middle of the table, "it seems that Lily and James Potter named the school as a benefactor in their will."

"What?" The whole council stood, crowding around the statement. Minerva's mouth dropped open as she skimmed the document. Most of the legal jargon was beyond her field of expertise, but one thing that spoke loud and clear was the sizeable galleon total at the bottom.

"What does this mean?" one of the governors wondered aloud.

"The will apparently listed that upon the completion of their son's final year of education, which of course the Potters believed would be in the spring of 1998, the school would receive a substantial grant from the Potter Estate in gratitude for all you have done for their family." Theron removed another piece of paper from the folder, this one clearly a spreadsheet. "I've run the numbers: there's enough money to cover the repairs without having to raise tuition or lower salaries; in fact, there will even be a small amount left over."

"How small?" Governor Walsh inquired.

"Not much– a few hundred galleons at most. You would probably be able to reinstate the end-of-term feast if you wished."

Minerva's head was spinning; tears had filled her eyes, and she sank into the nearest chair, covering her mouth with her hand. "That wonderful boy," she said softly, shaking her head. "Oh, James…"

"This is incredible. The students–"

"All the repairs covered! And leftover funds besides!"

"And we won't have to raise tuition!"

"Enough!"

The excited conversation stopped, and Minerva looked over. Somehow she was not surprised to see Governor Hargrave glaring at her from across the table. "Enough," he snapped. "Minerva, what is the meaning of this?"

"Beg pardon?" she replied, genuinely baffled.

"This!" Hargrave gestured angrily to Theron, and Minerva's blood began to boil. "Is this some sort of joke?"

"Excuse me?" said Theron, affronted. Hargrave ignored him.

"First the girl, then that infernal teacher, and now this! Trusting one of _their kind_ with our blasted bank statements!" Hargrave was very nearly spitting with fury. "I know you have some sort of– of incomprehensible _pity_ for these creatures, Minerva, but this, _this_ goes too far!"

That was it. Like a teakettle past the boiling point, Minerva McGonagall felt her Scottish wrath bubble over, and in one swift motion she stood and drew her wand– a move which almost certainly would have had disastrous consequences for her career, if it hadn't been overshadowed by an even more explosive reaction:

 _"Eustace Hargrave!"_

Theresa Cross's shriek rang through the room, drawing every eye; the black-haired witch looking like nothing so much as an eagle bearing down upon a quivering mouse. "I know you are a bigot and a fool, but have you lost your ever-loving mind?! Until twenty seconds ago the school was in the _red!"_ She slammed her hand down on the tabletop, making the chairman jump. "We do not have the luxury of enduring your pathetic prejudices, so I suggest that unless _you,_ by some miraculous bestowing of hitherto unseen brainpower from Heaven above, have managed to come up with a better solution, you had best sit down and _hold your bloody tongue!"_

A proud and pompous man he may have been, but even Governor Eustace Henry Hargrave could not help but quail under such a biting barrage. Mumbling something about apologies, he took his seat, not daring to meet anyone's eyes. Governor Cross did the same, breathing heavily through her nose. Minerva raised an eyebrow, a twitch tugging at her mouth. "Well," she said coolly, as if a duel hadn't very nearly erupted over the conference table in front of her, "I believe that about settles it. Shall we vote?"

And so it was that with remarkably little fuss the very first werewolf in Hogwarts history joined the board of governors.

When all was said and done, Minerva McGonagall would look back upon that day as one of the most interesting and productive board meetings of her career. By the time Hargrave (looking very much as if he would have rather fought a dragon than stay another minute) moved to adjourn the meeting, a new budget plan had been drawn, several letters had been drafted to Gringotts, and even the matter of the centaur colony's claim to the Black Forest had received approval for consideration. As the councilmembers tidied up their places and began to the leave through the floo, Minerva caught Theresa by the arm. "Thank you," she said sincerely. "If you hadn't stepped in, I think I may have hexed him myself."

"Yes, I thought you might." Theresa smiled and looked past her to where Theron was packing up his briefcase. "Theron Lowell, advising _us!_ I can't imagine how you managed that one, Minerva."

McGonagall said nothing, only gave a vague sort of "hmm," though inside she was quite pleased.

"By the way," Theresa said, as she was about to step through the fire, "I do rather like your suggestion of hosting a Yule Ball– goodness knows those children could do with a little cheer in their lives, all things considered– but how are you going to manage it? Even without decorations, two hundred galleons simply isn't enough to cover both food and music."

"Oh, don't you worry about that, Theresa," Minerva said with a mysterious glint in her eyes. "I know a fellow who might have just the solution we need."

* * *

" –Blasted, bloody, worthless piece of vegetation–"

"Don't blame the cactus; Neville told you not to touch it."

"I didn't think it was going to squirt its goop all over me! And now all the roast chicken is going to be gone."

Harry rolled his eyes at his friend's mournful tone. Having successfully put an end to their Herbology lesson an thirty minutes previous by poking the knot on a fully-grown _mimblus mimbletonia_ (the resulting explosion of stinksap consequently forcing the whole class to tramp back to their dorms to shower and change), Ron was not succeeding in inciting much sympathy from his friend.

"Hermione's right, you think too much about your stomach." He frowned suddenly, stopping as noticed a group crowding around the message board. "What d'you suppose all that's about?"

"Dunno."

They walked closer, peering above the heads of a gaggle of Ravenclaw fifth-years. "They're hosting another Yule Ball?" Harry said, surprised. "I didn't think the school had the money. Ron?"

But Ron was no longer paying attention; Harry glanced over to see that his best mate's face had gone strangely blank. He frowned. "Ron, are you okay?"

Without warning, the redhead whirled around, dropped his bookbag, and sprinted towards the great hall doors.

"What the– oy! Ron, wait up!" Harry grabbed his friend's forgotten bag and hurried afterwards, watching as Ron stopped short, looking this way and that. Harry watched as his eyes locked on Hermione at the end of the Gryffindor table, and then the man was off again, dashing through the hall–

 _WHAM!_

Harry winced as the surrounding students broke into laughter; unfortunately in his haste, Ron had failed to notice a bookbag sticking out from beneath the bench, a fact which had resulted on his current face-first position on the great hall floor. Hermione had leapt to her feet and hurried over, kneeling own beside him. "Oh my goodness! Ron, are you alright? Ron?"

 _"Godu'db'llwime."_

She frowned, confused. "What?"

Ron winced and pushed himself up off his face, trying to stem the steady stream of blood which was gushing from his broken nose. "Go du de ball wid me?" he repeated sheepishly, now looking a little less certain of his prospects.

Hermione stared at him in shock. "Ron, you're bleeding–!"

"Say yes. You godda say yes, please, 'Ermione!"

"Wha– I– Ron, yes, of course I'll go with you, but I really don't think this is the time!" He let out a relieved sigh and grinned, which looked rather macabre considering the circumstances, and Hermione sighed as well, drawing her wand. "Just hold still, you idiot. _Episkey!"_

Ron grimaced as his nose popped itself back into place; with another wave Hermione had _scourgified_ his face of blood. The crowd around them was still snickering, and she shook her head, fondly exasperated. "Next time, take an extra two seconds to look where you're going, alright?"

"I couldn't," he said earnestly, blue eyes shining. "I couldn't waste time, Hermione; I had to ask you before someone else did."

Harry watched as Hermione's face turned from confusion to realization to teary-eyed affection, and couldn't help but feel proud of how far his best friend had come. And if he happened to be among those who wolf-whistled when Hermione Granger kissed Ronald Weasley full on the mouth in the middle of the crowded hall, well, Ron was probably too preoccupied to notice anyway.

* * *

The windows gleamed in the bright sunlight as the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom filled up that Wednesday morning. Everyone was in high spirits thanks to the upcoming ball; girls were huddled together, whispering and giggling, and shooting dagger-eyed looks at any boy who happened to trod too close. Even the young men couldn't help but get into the spirit, trying as they might to play it off nonchalantly. "Are you going to take anyone, Seamus?" Dean Thomas asked, munching on an apple he'd swiped from breakfast.

"Probably not; not much point in it. Besides, I'm not the one you should be worried about," the young Irishman said smugly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just saying, if you don't ask Parvati, somebody else will…"

Ron and Harry snickered as Dean choked on his bite of apple. "Shut up," he hissed, glancing to where the Patil twins were speaking in low tones with Lavender Brown, occasionally shooting glances their way. Still, he couldn't help but give a nervous smile when the Indian witch caught his eye, causing the other boys to hide their guffaws in their textbooks.

"Alright, everyone, settle down!" Professor Lupin called, walking into the room, though he, too, was smiling broadly. "I know you're all excited by the good news, but I'm afraid I must insist you learn _something_ today. Everyone out of your desks now, wands out, books away…"

It was difficult to focus on target practice with such excitement in the air; even Ron, with his date assured and by far the best aim in the room, paused after a few lazy shots to turn to his friend. "So have you asked Ginny yet?"

"Not yet; I've got something special planned," Harry replied with a grin, eyeing up the target.

"Oh, do you?" a teasing voice replied; he jumped in surprise, the arrow shattering the window as it misfired. Ginny was grinning cheekily at him.

"That's right. And _you_ are not gonna know a thing about it," Harry replied, tapping her on the nose.

"Mmm. Sounds romantic."

A loud coughing drew their attention; Ron seemed to have doubled over in an asthmatic fit. Ginny eyed him, unimpressed. "Alright there, Ron?"

Ron responded with violent hacking that sounded suspiciously like _"get a room!"_

Despite the distraction, a week's worth of practice had not failed them; by the time an hour had passed Lupin seemed content with their skill, and called the lesson to a close. "Well done, everyone, very well done," he praised as they settled back into their seats. "I'm very impressed with your progress; make sure to keep practicing over the weekend for the test on Monday.

"As this is the last day we'll be spending on the lycanthropy unit, I've decided to offer you an opportunity." The class perked up at this, interested, and Lupin stowed his wand, sitting down on the top of a desk facing them with his feet on the chair. "I know better than most just how much information there is out there," he admitted, "so, rather than try to anticipate what it is you all already think or believe, I've elected to let you direct this last part of the lesson. I want to know what your questions are."

The students glanced around at each other uncertainly. "And we can ask you anything?" one of the younger Hufflepuff boys asked.

"Anything," Lupin affirmed. "Of course, that doesn't mean I'll directly _answer_ every question, but I won't lie to you. I promise you complete honesty."

More glances; the excited atmosphere had been swept away by an awkward silence. Remus stared out at the sea of faces and tried not to betray his own growing nervousness. Maybe this had been a mistake…

Then, from near the back of the class, a hand went up. Remus nodded. "Yes, Mr. Corner."

"I've heard that it hurts a lot," the boy said hesitantly, lowering his hand. "The transformation, I mean. Is it true?"

 _Straight to the gruesome questions, then._ Remus nodded. "Yes, the transformation can be quite painful."

"But why? I mean, it's not like that for animagi– is it?"

"Not usually, no. Part of the practice of animagancy includes learning to instinctively devote a certain amount of magic into, essentially, acting as a painkiller. Because the change is forced on me instead of caused by my own will, I don't have that luxury– although I admit that the more magical energy I have at the time of the full moon, the less pain the transformation seems to cause." He surveyed the class; several more hands had shot up. "Mr. Hendricks?"

The Slytherin boy put his hand down. "Our, er, our textbooks says that werewolves- well, they can't have children," he said quickly, coloring. "But– you have a kid, don't you? So how…?"

"Ah." He paused a moment, and then shrugged and replied, "I honestly can't explain it. Happy miracle, I suppose? As far as I know, Teddy- my son- is the only exception so far to the rule." Merlin's beard, he hadn't expected the questions to get so intrusive so quickly. "Mr. Longbottom."

Neville bit his lip, and then began, as if he'd read his mind, "If it's too personal, you don't have to answer–"

"More personal than the matter of my son's conception?" The class laughed at that, and Remus waved his hand. "Go on."

"Do you- do you know who it was, who…?"

 _Ahh…_ He glanced over to Lavender, who was decidedly staring down at her notes. A wave of paternal protectiveness swept through him. The poor girl needed someone to show her some solidarity, and why not here? Why not now?

"I do," he said calmly. "You see, all lycanthropes are required to present themselves for registration at the Ministry of Magic. The Registry works a bit like a family genealogy book; on the left of each name is the werewolf who infected him, and to the right, a column of any attacks that he may have carried out, intentional or unintentional. It is closed to public viewing, naturally," he continued, "but any lycanthrope is allowed to look up his own 'lineage,' so to speak, when he comes of age. I myself was turned by Fenrir Greyback."

More gasping; he saw several students' heads jerk to look at Lavender, and Remus quickly redirected their attention away from the girl back to himself. "Unlike many turnings, it was intentional- a rather nasty habit of Greyback's, which he had long before Voldemort put it to his use. My father made the mistake of getting on his bad side, and biting me was his form of revenge."

"That's awful," Parvati Patil whispered. "Why hasn't the Ministry caught him yet?"

Remus shrugged. "The trouble, of course, is that he's rather hard to catch. When I was undercover with the pack we rarely stayed anywhere for more than a few weeks, and then only if we were absolutely sure that the area was abandoned. He has also gone by a number of aliases, of which Fenrir Greyback is one and Justin MacIntyre another– that was the name he gave to the courts at his first hearing, likely because he knew if he gave his birth name they would recognize him as a wizard."  
"What's his real name, then?" Ron questioned curiously.

"Well, I'm not sure any of you would know the name nowadays, but back then it was quite infamous: Fenrir Greyback was born Justus Lloyd in Llanbedrog, Wales."

Hermione let out a choked-sounding gasp; Lupin raised his eyebrows. "Ah, yes," he said sympathetically, "I forgot. You did quite a bit of research on this, didn't you?"

 _"He's_ Justus Lloyd?" Hermione whispered. "Th-that poor boy?" Lupin inclined his head. "But- but Justus died! He died seventy years ago-!"

"So his parents said," Remus agreed quietly. "In truth, he was so disfigured by the attack that no one save his closest friends and family would have been able to recognize him. Nobody else believed he was still alive, a tragedy which, as you can see, he ended up using to his advantage."

"So how do you know about it?" Harry said, frowning. "He didn't tell you, did he?"

"Ah. Well," Lupin sighed, "my family has always had a certain… preoccupation… with lycanthropy. My grandfather was the last werewolf hunter in Great Britain. Horrid, I know," he said, as several students wrinkled their noses. "More to the point, Llanbedrog has been my family's home for centuries; my grandfather and Justus were schoolmates and neighbors. After the attack, he swore up and down that Justus must have been turned and was still alive, since, well…" He coughed, reddening. "Since wolves commonly finish their prey at the spot of the kill, and Justus's body was never found. Nobody believed him, of course, save for my father; it was in part why he was able to recognize Greyback as a werewolf at his trial."

"Is that why he attacked you, then?" one of the Ravenclaws asked carelessly. Remus winced. "Because your father identified him?"

"In part," the professor replied guardedly. "There were… external factors, as well."

"Like what?"

"Bit personal, don't you think, Caldwell?" Ginny snapped, turning around in her seat. The boy went red.

"It's alright, Ginevra, I'm not offended," Lupin mollified. "But I'm afraid it's a bit of a long story, and not a very pleasant one. In fact, it's not even really mine." The class unconsciously leaned forward in their seats, and he sighed again, checking his watch. "Very well then. As you're all so interested, I suppose I can sacrifice the last half-hour to story time."

He paused, gathering his thoughts and reaching back through the long years to the stories of his earliest childhood, national legends that ran through his blood like disease and birthright. Then, drawing a breath, he told his tale:

* * *

"Every culture has its myths and legends," Lupin began, in just the sort of tone required for storytelling, "and werewolf pack culture is no different. Among the most important myths of pack society is the Lai of Melion; does anyone here know of it?"

Predictably, Hermione raised her hand. Remus nodded. "It's an Arthurian legend, many centuries old. The muggles have their version of it, which is more or less inaccurate. The wizarding version is considered correct by most magical historians; you'll probably find a short version of it somewhere in your schoolbooks." He gave them a knowing look, suggesting he was well aware that many of them had never bothered to crack the cover of _A History of Magic._

"But it's a myth," Hermione interjected. "I mean, it's just a story, isn't it?"

"It is a myth, and it is true," Lupin replied gravely. "Never make the mistake of thinking that because something is a myth it is necessarily untrue, Miss Granger; mythology is a means of communication, of passing on a society's values. The Lai of Melion is one such story.

"Now in the fifth century, when Rome fell, many of the military officers occupying this part of the world remained behind in Great Britain. One of the most famous of these, as you well know, was Uther Pendragon, whose son was a half-blooded wizard by the name of Arthur, the once and future king whose line continues to this day."

He gave a brief nod to Ron, causing Harry to whirl around and look at his friend in utter shock. _("You're what?" "I thought you knew!")_

"With Uther there was a young slave by the name of Æmilianus– _Melion,_ in the French," Remus continued, ignoring the outburst. "Melion was given to Arthur as a squire when he was still a boy, and in time he was granted his freedom so that he might serve as a knight under the new king. But Melion, like Arthur, was more than a knight– he was also a very powerful warlock, and…"

He gestured to Hermione, who finished in a whisper, "A werewolf."

Lupin nodded. "The first in Britain, so the legend claims. Lycanthropy was at this time in an interesting position; werewolves were very rare, and regarded with both fear and respect. Because of this affliction, he was often called _Æmilianus Lupinus,_ Melion the Wolfish."

There was a stir through the class at the name; several hands shot up, Hermione's included. Lupin held up his own pacifyingly. "I promise, everything will be clear by the end of the story." The hands lowered, but now everyone was at rapt attention. "Melion was given a small castle in the north of Wales for his service, where he went to live with several of his men. He was as of yet unwed, as neither witch nor muggle woman wished to marry someone of his condition. One day, however, while he was out hunting with his squire, he came across a maiden of noble dress and bearing. As it happened, this maiden was the daughter of the High King of Ireland, a powerful witch in her own right. She said had heard of Melion's prowess as both a knight and a wizard and wished to marry him and love him until her dying day."

Harry glanced around to see that most of the girls were smiling; only Hermione remained unaffected– quite the opposite, her face had gone stony with anger. Intrigued, he turned back to Lupin.

"Melion and the princess were wed with all due pomp and circumstance," the teacher continued, "and the knight found himself, for the first time in his life, truly happy. Within the year, the princess bore two sons, twin boys, who it seemed had not inherited Melion's unfortunate fate. The boys were named Romulus and Remus, after the founders of Rome."

"But I thought lycanthropy was genetic?" Dean Thomas demanded, not bothering to raise his hand. "Why weren't they werewolves, too?"

"An excellent question," said Lupin lightly. "Miss Granger, you know the tale; could you perhaps enlighten us?"

"The squire," she answered bitterly. A murmur ran through the class, and Remus inclined his head.

"Just so. The children, unknown to Melion, were not his own… his wife had fallen in love with the squire and broken her marriage vows. More than that, the two wanted to run way together.

"And now we come to the whole crux of the story: the Ring of Melion." His golden eyes gleamed at this, as if he were about to reveal a great and terrible secret. "I have told you that Melion was a powerful warlock; his greatest accomplishment was creating a ring whose enchantments allowed him to retain his mind during his transformations."

"Like Wolfsbane!" someone called from the back.

"Precisely. Now, well aware that she would hardly be welcome anywhere as the squire's mistress, the princess devised a plan to make it appear to the world as if Melion had died, so she could marry her lover without disgrace. On the day before the full moon, the princess, knowing Melion would never dare remove the ring in his transformed state, secretly enchanted it to keep him trapped as a wolf even after the moon had set. Then she told him she had seen a great white stag in the forest and desired that he should catch it for her."

"Well, the long and short of the matter was that Melion did transform that night, and he did chase and catch the white stag. Now I've told you that magic set to an astronomical clock oughtn't be tampered with; as such, the witch's curse did not go entirely to plan. When the moon set, Melion began to change back, but was trapped halfway through the transformation. His appearance was so distorted that no man could have recognized him; moreover, although he kept his human mind, he was incapable of speech– and, worse still, he had acquired a penchant for human flesh."

There was a ripple of gasps and whispers through the class; Lavender looked horrified; both of the Patil twins had covered their mouths in revulsion. Lupin nodded grimly. "This, as you might have inferred, was the first instance of 'turning feral.' Terrified, Melion rushed home to find his castle abandoned and his wife and squire vanished with the twin boys. In short order he realized that he had somehow been tricked… and then, to his horror, it dawned on him that perhaps his sons were not his after all." Here the professor's face grew hard. "Melion then proceeded to do a terrible thing, the repercussions of which still echo down to this very day: he vowed to revenge himself on the princess and the squire.

"Melion boarded a ship bound for Ireland, where he turned ten men and formed a pack. Together they laid waste to the countryside, until the princess's father, the Irish king, sent his guards to destroy the pack. The soldiers succeeded in killing the ten, but failed to catch the leader.

"Melion was disconsolate over the loss of his pack until he learned that King Arthur, his old friend, would soon be arriving by ship to end an old feud between England and Ireland. When Arthur arrived, the mute Melion mimed out a plea for work, and the king took him into his service, never once dreaming that the disfigured beggar had once been his loyal friend. Melion ingratiated himself so greatly to Arthur that he was allowed to attend the kings' meeting.

"While he was sitting in the great hall at the negotiations, he saw the squire standing in the crowd, dressed as in the garb of an Irish prince. Enraged, Melion attacked the man, and would have killed him had Arthur not called him off. The king then ordered the squire to explain himself, and the terrified man told the king the whole truth. They then called the princess to the great hall and, having heard her confession as well, had her try lift the enchantment. Unfortunately…" Lupin grimaced. "Unfortunately, although his appearance was somewhat restored and he regained the power of speech, his voluntary turning of other victims had rendered his bestial condition permanent. Enraged, Melion wanted to destroy the princess, but Arthur pleaded with him to spare her on behalf of the twin children, and Melion appeared to give his consent."

"Appeared?" Seamus questioned.

Remus sighed, running a hand through his brown hair. "As the legend holds, somehow Melion's bite had managed remain potent long after moonset. Melion, they say, had already learned this through the creation of his pack; he knew full well what he had done when he'd bitten the squire. The next full moon, the unsuspecting man transformed in his own bed and attacked his mistress and children. The princess and her younger son escaped safely, but the elder, Romulus, was turned. When the squire realized what he had become, he hung himself, and Melion stole the child away, vowing that the two brothers would be always at war against each other until the younger's blood bore the elder's pain. The princess followed them back to Wales in an attempt to find her lost son, but all her efforts went in vain."

"But the younger son," Hermione whispered. _"Remus Lupinus…"_

"Melion and Romulus spread the disease across Wales and into England, teaching the new werewolves to hate and fear mankind as their unworthy oppressors. In response, Remus and his descendants devoted themselves to destroying what they considered to be the most dangerous scourge of their day. In time, the line diversified to defeating and defending against all manners of dangerous creatures and dark arts. I suppose you could say," Professor Lupin concluded modestly, ducking his head, "that it became the family business."

* * *

The class was in awe. "So are you really….?" Parvati Patil whispered.

"Remus Lupin the Thirteenth, at your service," the professor admitted sheepishly. "Only that sounds horrendously pretentious and as you now know, it's quite a long explanation. I usually just stick with Remus."

"So that's why Greyback attacked you?" Seamus questioned. "Because of the story?"

"The family heritage was a contributing factor, yes, both directly and indirectly."

"And the Ring?" Hermione inquired.

"Scholars have concluded that, even if the ring still exists, it has been lost to history. But the matter of succession still carries a good deal of weight; Greyback has convinced many among the wild werewolves that he is an heir of Melion and he uses the clout of it very effectively. Oh, yes," he said with a nod at their surprised faces, "He is far more intelligent than most people give him credit for. Fenrir Greyback reads a room like you and I read newspaper articles; he understands how to twist hope and anger and fear in just the right way to get his underlings to do what he wants. The Lai of Melion is a basic campfire staple for the pack; it gives the subordinates a medium for their anger and teaches the pups to hate mankind."

No one had missed how his features grew progressively darker and his voice graver as he spoke, as if the shadows cast by the furrows of his scars were spreading across the rest of his face. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but his irises seemed to have brightened to an unsettling yellow-gold as he lost himself in thought for a moment or two, gaze falling pensively to the ground. Then he shook himself slightly and looked up, his eyes once again a warm hazel.

"Well," he said evenly, "I think that's about all the time we have for today. Mind you study up for the test on Monday."

The students stood and filed for the door, speaking in quiet murmurs. Remus watched them go. As he did so, he caught sight of Harry, and remembered that he ought to talk to the boy; Dora, unfortunately, had informed him that the Ministry simply couldn't spare any of their remaining legilimens at the moment. It seemed that the young man would be forced to choose another thesis…

But even as he thought these words, Remus's eyes fell upon the student standing just behind Harry Potter's shoulder, and a sudden light seemed to spark in his brain. As the student headed for the door, he rose to his feet and called out:

"Mr. Malfoy? Might I have a word with you?"

* * *

"–So you're telling me that in eight years of friendship, you never _once_ thought to mention that you're descended from King Arthur?"

"Honestly, mate, it's not a big deal," Ron puffed, climbing the last few steps of the stairs. Classes had finished for the day, and the trio were hoping to study a bit before supper.

 _"Not a big–_ Ron, you're an heir to the throne of England!"

"So? It's not like anyone's inviting me round to Buckingham Palace, are they?" They turned the corner towards the portrait door, Hermione following with an amused grin a few paces behind. "Besides, Dad worked it out once; I think somewhere around a couple thousand people would have to get offed before anyone started asking _me_ to be king…"

"Harry! Ron!"

The trio turned in unison, surprised. Neville hurried up to them, slightly out of breath. "Something wrong, Neville?" Harry inquired, surprised.

"No, no, but Professor Lupin wants to see you; he told me to send you by as soon as you had time."

The two glanced at each other, surprised. "We're free right now," Ron pointed out. "D'you think we should go?"

"Probably. Thanks, Neville."

"No problem."

Hermione watched the pair leave, and then turned to Neville, frowning. "Did Professor Lupin say why he wanted to see them?"

Neville shook his head. "He just told me it was important."

"Hmm… well, thank you anyway, Neville."

They parted inside at the staircase, where Hermione went up to the girl's dorm alone, still musing to herself what could have been so important. The dormitory was empty, so she retrieved the book on Elphinstone Urquart she'd been using for her research and went downstairs to the common room, curling up in one of the sun-warmed armchairs and opening to a bookmarked page. She was pleasantly surprised to find that the next section was entitled _Personal Life;_ though it felt a bit like spying on her old professor, she couldn't help but be intrigued. Settling into a cozier position, she began to read:

 _Personal Life_

 _Elphinstone Urquart was born on the family estate in the Scottish Highlands on 3 August, 1927, to a pureblooded family of noble lineage; as such, he acquired the title of lord after the death of his father in 1948, though he rarely used it. He attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and was sorted into Gryffindor House, where he eventually became Quidditch captain and the four-year champion of the inter-house dueling competitions (discontinued in 1983 after an unfortunate mishap involving two broken wands and the unintentional conjuring of a rhinoceros). He graduated in June of 1945 and began working for the Auror Office in July of the same year._

 _Urquart quickly proved his talent as an Auror and was soon being regularly entrusted with lead investigative roles in many important cases. In 1952, his superior and good friend Charlus Potter was asked by the Minister to head up the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Potter accepted and recommended Urquart as his replacement. Thus, at the age of twenty-five, Elphinstone Urquart became the youngest Chief Superintendent of the Auror Office in history (a record still maintained to this date), an office which he would hold until himself being promoted after Charlus Potter's death in 1979._

 _In was while in this position that he would meet the love of his life and future wife: Minerva Isobel McGonagall. McGonagall had come to work at the Auror Office as the department clerk to the courts, and found a kindred spirit in Urquart. Both Scotts, devout Presbyterians and former Gryffindors (not to mention avid fans of the Scottish National Quidditch Team), the two quickly became fast friends, and maintained correspondence even after McGonagall left the Ministry to accept a teaching position at Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall herself has confirmed to this writer that Elphinstone asked for her hand in marriage repeatedly during their decades-long friendship, and although she politely rebuffed his affections, they remained dear friends. In the summer of 1982 she at last accepted his proposal, and the two were wed in the fall of that same year. They moved into a cottage in Hogsmead and lived there happily until the end of Urquart's life._

 _Along with his beloved Minerva, Urquart was an active member of the First Order of the Phoenix and apparently was responsible for saving many lives over the course of the First Wizarding War, both in his position in the Ministry and in covert fieldwork with the Order (the details of which, alas, were never officially documented by the Order, which naturally had other pressing concerns at the time). Nevertheless, thanks to his widow a number of his more daring missions have been recorded here for posterity's sake (see chapter seven)._

 _Tragically, Elphinstone's life was cut short in 1985 by an accidental encounter with a Venemous Tentecula of unusually large size, chanced upon during one of his routine walks through the Forbidden Forest. Both the poison and the extent of his wounds proved too severe for McGonagall and the school infirmarian to heal without help, and Urquart expired in the forest before the St. Mungo's healers could arrive._

 _Despite the tragedy, Elphinstone Urquart's memory lives on; a still-life portrait of him hangs in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (at his request, no moving portrait was ever painted of him), and his courage and genius no doubt saved the lives of countless innocent wizards and muggles alike, many of whom will probably never know of the debt which they owe him._

 _Urquart is survived by his widow, Minerva McGonagall, and the remaining members of the First Order of the Phoenix: Albus and Aberforth Dumbledore, Dedalus Diggle, Elphias Dodge, Mundungus Fletcher, Rubeus Hagrid, Frank and Alice Longbottom, Remus Lupin, Alastor Moody, Sturgis Podmore, Severus Snape, and Emmeline Vance._

Hermione's heart gave a particularly painful twist, to see Professor Dumbledore, Alastor Moody, and even Professor Snape listed among the yet living; she checked the date of the book and found that it had been published just eight years earlier. With a lump in her throat she flipped back to the chapter and turned the page. Much to her surprise, she found that it did not begin with a new chapter, but rather contained a photograph: Professor McGonagall and Elphinstone Urquart, both looking far younger than she'd seen in other photographs, were sitting together at a table in the Three Broomsticks; as she watched a broadly smiling Minerva McGonagall raised her glass of scotch and toasted the photographer. Elphinstone Urquart was watching her with an air that seemed both tired but delighted. At the bottom was the date: _1_ _st_ _January, 1975._ It had been taken on New Years' Day.

Hermione stared; she had never seen the professor like this, except perhaps in perhaps that tiny picture contained in the locket– the locket, she now realized, that was hung in plain view around the professor's neck. The student frowned, peering closer. There was something odd about the photograph… she just couldn't put her finger on it…

The sudden chiming of a clock brought her back to her senses; she checked the time and realized with shock that a whole hour had passed since she'd sat down to read. Quickly gathering her things, she threw the book into her bag and headed for the door. Supper would be starting any minute; odd photographs and old biographies would have to wait. Still, even as she descended the stairs towards the great hall, the image of the golden locket never quite left her mind.

* * *

Remus Lupin had always had a relatively realistic view of his talents. Unlike James and Sirius, who had always believed themselves capable of everything (and had usually proved themselves right), their tawny-haired friend had been a bit more conservative in his estimation of himself. Defense he was good at; potions he was not. Paperwork he handled with ease; piano-playing, on the other hand, usually resulted in oddly disjointed tunes and chords that didn't match up. For all his lycanthropic strength, he was an absolute dunce regarding any sort of sport or athletics; duels and pub brawls, on the other hand, lent him a sort of grace that he'd never achieved on a broomstick or football field.

Among this specified list was one particular talent which had always served him well: although hardly charismatic, Remus was nonetheless a remarkably persuasive person. If one had asked him the origins of this gift, he would have replied modestly that he supposed he happened to be a logical, well-spoken, and decently likeable fellow. If one had asked those who trusted him, they would have replied that they couldn't help but respect the man for his thoughtfulness and the quiet strength which somehow spoke louder than the world's brashness and bluster.

Whatever the reason, Remus was grateful for his little gift, and didn't take it for granted. Which was why he already knew exactly what Harry Potter would say before he'd said it.

It was the second such conversation of the day, and, Remus knew, it was going to be the more difficult of the two– and that was saying something, considering how the first of these little talks had gone. After the rest of the students had left that morning's Defense class, Draco Malfoy had shut the door and walked over to where the professor was straightening his lecture papers.

"You wanted to speak with me, Professor?"

"Mm." Remus paper-clipped the pieces of parchment together. "As it happens, Draco, I'm afraid I must make a rather odd request of you."

"Oh?" It was a mark of just how much he trusted the man that the young Malfoy's voice contained only the slightest note of suspicion.

"I'm afraid I've run into a bit of a road-block with my last unit for the term," Remus said lightly. "You see, Professor Dumbledore usually ran the lessons on Occlumency."

Draco immediately stiffened. "Oh," he said guardedly.

"He was, of course, an excellent occlumens and a legilimens himself, much like Severus Snape." The _"and your aunt"_ did not need to be added. "Unfortunately, while I am an occlumens, I am not a legilimens, and the auror office simply can't spare anyone at the moment."

"What exactly are you asking me, Professor?" Draco said flatly, in a tone he rarely took with Lupin.

Remus decided it was time to drop the pretenses. "Draco. It is absolutely impossible to teach occlumency without practice against a real force; if I want to train your classmates I will need help to do so. Moreover, there's a student who wants to learn occlumency for their thesis; if I can't find a legilimens for him to practice against he'll have to drop the study." Lupin regarded Draco with open frankness. "If you can help me, I would be much in your debt."

There was a long pause. The young man's mouth was very tight; Remus waited without a word.

"…I'm not very good," he said finally. "My aunt was more focused on teaching me defense, not offense. But yes... I am a, well, a _passable_ legilimens, to use her words."

"Did you use this at all during your sixth year?"

"No. I learned most of it while I was- during the last year." Lupin didn't ask him to elaborate. "And I haven't used it since… I don't like it. It feels…" He trailed off.

"Like an invasion of privacy," the professor inferred.

"Exactly. Besides, I really don't think the other students are going to be too keen to having me poking around in their minds, are they?" His voice dripped with cynicism.

"No. But I think they'll allow it once I explain that you're likely not the most frightening legilimens they could encounter." His expression was sympathetic. "Draco, I absolutely understand if you are not comfortable with this, and I would not be angry if you turned me down. But I need to train my students. If you were to receive express permission from your classmates to allow you to do this, would that make you more willing to help me in this matter?"

The young man eyed him for a long moment. Lupin held his breath.

"…Fine," Draco said at last, though he didn't sound happy about it. "But only because I owe you."

"You don't owe me anything, Draco. Any decent person would have–"

"But any decent person didn't. _You_ did." Now that he seemed to have his mind made up, the boy's face was set. "You saved my life even when you had no reason to help me, Professor. That's not something I take lightly." Remus inclined his head, and the student cleared his throat. "So. Who is it that wants to learn occlumency?"

Lupin hesitated. "…A classmate of yours. I'm afraid to say you're not on particularly good terms."

Draco's face fell. "You _can't_ be serious."

* * *

"You _can't_ be serious."

Remus sighed. "Harry–"

"No way, Remus. I'll choose another thesis, I don't care, but I'm drawing the line."

The young man's expression was so stubborn that Remus just about gave up the will right then and there, wondering if he'd been mad to even consider it in the first place. It just didn't seem possible for the two young men to work together.

They did, however, appear to agree on one thing: both thought that this was a terrible idea. "Honestly, this feud of yours has become a bit ridiculous, don't you think?" Remus pointed out. "You're both bright, talented young men; honestly I think the two of you could be friends, or at least stop being enemies."

"Friends," Harry snorted. "Right. I'd rather drink broom polish."

"I wouldn't judge him too quickly, Harry. Yes, some of what he's done was indubitably wrong, but I've learned it's best not to judge another man's soul until you've been in his shoes."

"Look, Remus," Harry argued, "I know he's not the– the evil, homicidal dark wizard a lot of people assume he is, but that doesn't stop Malfoy from being a world-class prick. I just don't particularly fancy the idea of him rummaging through my memories."

Lupin sighed. "I can understand that. At your age, if someone had suggested I let Severus Snape start playing around in my head, I'd have laughed in their face. But the fact of the matter is, Harry, there isn't anyone else. If you want to learn occlumency, this is the best way." At the young wizard's dubious expression, he added, "If it helps any, Mr. Malfoy doesn't seem any more excited about the idea than you are."

After a long silence, Harry let out a grumbling sigh of his own. "…If he sticks his nose in where it doesn't belong _even once–"_

"I will be right there to put an end to it."

Harry still looked less than pleased with the idea, but in the end he swallowed his distaste and replied with a grudging, "When do we start?"

Lupin grinned wryly. "Is next week soon enough for you?"

"Ugh."

The professor chuckled despite himself. "You know Harry, sometimes our former enemies end up becoming our greatest allies. More than once, I had to rely on Severus's quick thinking and duelsmanship during a firefight. Who knows? Someday you and Draco might even be fighting together side-by-side." Harry gave him a dubious look, and Lupin laughed. "Well, I don't expect you to believe me. Just show up during your lunch hour next Monday and we'll go from there."

"Will do."

"Excellent. Now, could you run and fetch Ronald? I have something I think will be of interest to the two of you."

Curious, Harry hurried over to the door and peeked his head out. Ron was sitting with his back to the wall, charming a paper airplane to do loop-de-loops through the air. "Hey," he said in surprise as the door opened (the airplane tragically nosedived into the ground). "You alright, mate? You look like you just swallowed a lemon."

"Tell you later. Come on in; he says he has something for you."

Ron followed him back inside the classroom, where Remus had set what looked like a remarkably ordinary cardboard box on the table. The boys eyed it with interest as they approached the desk. "Professor McGonagall informed me, Ronald, that you are pursuing the craft of animagancy for your thesis project, yes?" the professor questioned.

"Yeah. She said you might know something about the bi-lodgy of it?"

Remus's mouth twitched at the mispronunciation, but didn't comment on it. "I do, but as it happens I have something even better." He opened the box; the boys peered inside to see that it contained several reams of old parchment paper covered in notes, official-looking scientific studies in typewrite, and even what appeared to be one or two stolen library books.

"I assume you know by now, Harry, that all of the Potter accounts were sealed during the war?"

"Yeah. It's bloody annoying; I had to borrow money from Hermione just to buy schoolbooks."

Remus chuckled. "Well, you'll be pleased to hear that Gringotts has finally managed to unseal them. I imagine you'll be getting a bank statement in a few days. However, upon reopening the accounts, they also did a full inventory of your parents' will."

"Their will?"

"Mmm. All the recipients of unclaimed bequests were contacted, including me. When I moved to the States back in '83 I left these behind in their vault." Remus reached inside the box and pulled out a typewritten letter, stamped with the Gringotts seal, and cleared his throat. "'To Remus John Lupin XIII, we leave, first and foremost, all of the notes we took over those three years, to remind him that we did, in fact, occasionally do our own homework.'" He smiled at Harry and handed him the letter. "These were all the notes and studies we compiled for their studies in animagancy."

"These were my dad's?" said Harry, taking them in hand. The handwriting on the top page was neat and slightly slanted, almost feminine; clearly his father had been made to take penmanship lessons at some point in his early life. He flipped through several pages and found another style of handwriting, equally graceful but darker and in rich, flowing cursive; somehow he knew instinctively that it was Sirius's. A third set of notes, shorter and not nearly as detailed, was written in tiny, nearly unintelligible scribbles: these, Harry knew, must have belonged to Peter Pettigrew. At the very bottom of the small stack was a muggle notebook full of the loopy cursive, identical to that which now covered the chalkboard beside them.

He looked up at Lupin, stunned. The werewolf smiled back, hazel eyes twinkling. "I daresay you have more use for them now than I do."

Harry wasn't able to speak; thankfully, Ron (who'd been eagerly flipping through one of the books) filled the silence. "Wow! Look at all this stuff; I can't believe you guys figured this out at _fifteen!"_

"Well, it was a group effort; oh, all the nights we stayed up late studying…" Remus chuckled to himself, lost in memory. "We went through a lot of ink– and a lot of hot chocolate, come to think of it…"

Harry had a brief impression of his father stretched out lazily on the carpet in front of the Gryffindor common room fire, drinking hot chocolate as he poured over stolen library books and laughing at some antic of Sirius's, Remus looking on with a smile of fond exasperation– yes, even Peter Pettigrew made his way into the image, cheerful and innocent as he never had been in Harry's memory. When the vision faded, he looked up at the professor, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Thank you," he croaked.

It was all he could manage, but Remus understood.

* * *

History, it seems, is sometimes destined to repeat itself, for that very night three young Gryffindors found themselves occupying the same armchairs, pouring over the same yellowed pages of the same old books– yes, even drinking the same brand of Honeydukes hot chocolate– as their predecessors had, some twenty-odd years earlier. "You guys don't have to help me, you know," Ron pointed out, glancing between Lupin's old notes and his own parchment, freshly covered in inky scribbles.

"Nonsense," Hermione brushed it off, "we want to. Besides, it's nice not to be doing schoolwork for a change…"

"So your version of _fun_ is somebody else's homework?"

"You weren't complaining when I was helping you study for your O.W.L.s…"

Harry was, per usual, tuning out his friends' bickering, instead savoring every word of his father's notes. They were brilliant, he realized; Lupin was right, his father really _had_ been good at transfiguration. He'd been very funny, too; the margins were littered with little comments like, _"What if form is goldfish? Must remember fishbowl,"_ and, _"Need new study spot. McKinnon started coming here and Sirius can't focus."_ (Beneath this, the aristocratic handwriting had added, _"Like you're to talk, loverboy!")_ Occasionally he even found references to his mother, usually in the form of charmed-on notes of Sirius's telling James to pay attention.

"They really found everything, didn't they?" Hermione mused, paging through one of the studies. "Look at this: _A Comprehensive Study of the Transformed Lycanthrope's Interactions with Animagi."_

Harry glanced over, interested. "There's no author," he noted.

"No… I suppose if you're one of the only animagi in Britain you don't want the whole world guessing which of your friends is a werewolf…" Intrigued, she plopped down in the nearest armchair and began to read. Harry continued to pour over his father's notes. By far the most prominent characteristic that came through was his father's intense loyalty and care for his friends. It was easy to read between the lines, filled as they were with concern for Remus, Sirius, and Peter in turn. There was an abundance of detail in how one could expect a transformed werewolf to react to an unusual animal, a familiar animagus, a human… more notes (which made Harry's stomach turn) on the exact effects the monthly transformations had on the fourteen-year-old Remus Lupin, and what (following James's first successful transformation) a great white stag could do to prevent it. When Harry glanced up to look into the fire, he was surprised to find that it was Hermione and Ron who sat in those old armchairs, not Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs. For the first time in his life, his father felt _real._ It hurt, he decided, but in a good way.

"Maybe I should try Wormtail's notes," Ron joked, squinting at the professor's loopy handwriting and not even realizing that he'd called his former "pet" by the dead man's old epithet. "Seems like he was a bit slower than Lupin– blimey, not hard to be, is it? These notes are bloody complicated– maybe that's more my speed–"

 _Thunk!_

Both Harry and Ron jumped and looked over. Hermione had dropped her mug of hot chocolate on the carpet. Cocoa was spilling everywhere, soaking the Persian rug, but she didn't notice, staring in shock at the study in her hands. "'Mione?" Ron said, worried. "You alright?"

The question seemed to snap her out of her daze, and she tossed out a distracted, "Yes– fine–," all the while throwing her books haphazardly into her bag and redoing her tie, a peculiar look in her eyes that set Harry and Ron on edge. "Hold on!" Harry said quickly, standing up as well. "Where're _you_ going?"

"I just realized- but I won't know for sure unless I ask- Merlin, I can't believe no one saw it before-"

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute!" countered Ron, jumping in her path. "Before you go barreling off to the library or wherever, could you maybe _tell_ us what mind-blowing revelation you just had?"

"What?"

"Every time you get that look, something bad happens!" Harry exclaimed. "Usually to me!"

Hermione huffed. "Oh, honestly, that's _so_ not-"

"Oh, yes it is!" Ron snapped irritably. "So this time, maybe you could _tell us_ whether there's a secret chamber of death hidden in the kitchens, or that Professor Sprout is a vampire, or, I dunno, Harry's the long-lost heir of Helga Hufflepuff, instead of waiting for us to figure it out for ourselves?"

"Well, you'll both be pleased to know that this particular 'mind-blowing revelation' is none of your _business!"_ Hermione hissed, shoving the study in her bag. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have actual work to do!" And without another moment's ado, she whirled around and stalked away, leaving half the contents of her bag scattered on the common room floor.

The two young men glanced at each other. "We're dead, aren't we?" Ron moaned.

"Nice knowing you, mate," Harry agreed, handing him Hermione's compact mirror.

* * *

 _"Password?"_

Hermione huffed in frustration as the griffin statue eyed her expectantly. "I don't know the–"

 _"No password, no entrance."_ The griffin closed its eyes and appeared to go back to sleep.

Hermione glared. "Couldn't you just tell her I'm here? I need to speak with her."

The griffin opened its eyes again and, unless she was imagining it, looked a bit annoyed. _"Name?"_

"Hermione Granger."

 _"Purpose?"_

The girl hesitated. Statues didn't tend to be gossips, being generally inanimate, but she didn't feel that this was information to be shared lightly with anyone, even the keeper of the headmistress's office. "Just tell her it's important," she said eventually.

The griffin closed its eyes again. A moment later the passage opened, and Hermione hurried up the stairs.

Professor McGonagall was frowning through her spectacles at a long and official-looking letter when the student arrived; she looked up as Hermione closed the door and adjusted her glasses, surprised. "Miss Granger. You look quite distressed; is something the matter?"

"We need to talk," Hermione said shortly, though her voice spoke more of nervousness than of anger. This wasn't the sort of allegation to make lightly, she knew, and if she was wrong…

"Oh? About what?"

The student drew a deep breath and pulled the study out of her bag, setting it down on the desk facing the professor. She watched as McGonagall scanned the first several sentences. When the look of realization dawned upon the old widow's face, Hermione knew she'd been right.

"We need to talk," she repeated, drawing the headmistress's eyes, "about Elphinstone Urquart."

McGonagall stared her down for several seconds, expression inscrutable. Then, with a sigh, she stood and went to the fireplace and took the kettle off the spit, pouring the steaming water into the waiting tea set. Hermione watched in silence as she prepared two cups of tea, and then returned, gesturing to the chair opposite hers.

"Have a seat, Miss Granger. I have the feeling this is going to take a while."

* * *

 **A/N: I'm so sorry! I know that it's two months late, but in my defense, classes have resumed and real life with it. Schoolwork has gotten a lot tougher, and I've also started writing my undergraduate thesis, so any free time I have by the end of the day I usually spend just staring at the wall, appreciating the wonderful dullness of the color beige. (Tips: if you ever, at any point, will be enrolled in a class where you'll be required to discuss concrete and abstract nature theories as regards the Incarnation, make sure to have taken classes in Thomistics and Metaphysics first.)**

 **I can't say when I'll have the next chapter up, so I do sincerely apologize to all my wonderful readers. If you've stuck with this story despite my absence, know that you have my fullest gratitude. I repent in sackcloth and ashes… In other news, happy Lent everyone!**

 **But sincerely, thank you all so much. God bless you all!** _ **Pax et bonum!**_

 **-FFcrazy15**


	24. Chapter 24: Breaking Point

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here. The occlumency method Lupin teaches was inspired by the similar practice in the Inheritance Cycle (Eragon) books.

 **Warnings: cursing, mentions of child abuse.**

* * *

"Are you ready, gentlemen?"

"Ready," they chorused, and Remus grinned.

"Alright, now," he instructed, "the trick is to leave the door open long enough for you–" He nodded to the redhead, "–to get in. Make sure the cloak is covering your feet; I can't tell you how many times James almost got caught–"

"We _know,_ professor," George said, rolling his eyes.

"She's not going to suspect a thing," Harry reassured him. "I've been a model student!" Remus raised an eyebrow, and he hastened to add, "Well, for the most part…"

"Hm. _You_ might be innocent in her eyes, Harry, but your father most certainly was _not._ And if you don't wipe that smirk off your face, she'll kick you out of that box so fast she won't bother to remember whether which Potter you are."

"So how did you get away with so much, then?" George pointed out.

Lupin raised the other eyebrow. "Unlike James and Sirius, _I_ had the innocent look down to an art by our fifth year." He widened his eyes a little into an expression of mild surprise. "An _explosion,_ Professor? That sounds dangerous! Was anyone hurt? Do you need me to fetch the other prefects?"

Harry broke out laughing as George gave his fellow prankster a skeptical look. "McGonagall actually fell for that?"

"Not on your life. But at least I had the decency to _pretend_ it wasn't me." He rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath. "That idiot stag, always bloody _snickered,_ like we weren't in enough trouble already _…"_

"Speaking of which," Harry said to George, between snickers of his own, "you've got the stuff?"

"Harry, Harry, so little faith," George sighed, patting a suspiciously unmarked cardboard box under his arm. "Have I ever let you down?"

The conversation paused as the school clock chimed, and Lupin nodded to the door. "You had better go; it wouldn't do to be late to breakfast." As the pair turned, he added, "George, a word?"

The redhead hung back as Harry, understanding that whatever was about to be said was none of his business, slipped out the door and shut it behind him. Once it was closed, Lupin cleared his throat. "George I've been meaning to check in on you–"

"I've been off the sauce, don't worry," the redhead interrupted quickly, flushing.

The marauder shook his head. "As admirable as that is, I didn't mean that I wanted to interrogate you. I wanted to make sure _you're_ alright."

The shopkeeper bit his lip. "I'm not," he admitted. "Not yet… but I think I will be, eventually. Just knowing he's still out there somehow, that he's not… Knowing that I'm gonna see him again, someday, even if it's a long time off– that's helped a lot, more than you know. So… thank you."

Remus nodded. "I know it still hurts. If you ever want to talk…"

"Yeah." George smiled ruefully, but at least it was an honest smile, not faked, and that gave Remus more assurance than anything else.

"Your brother would have been very proud of you," the professor said gently. "Or rather, I should say I'm certain he is."

"Yeah?" Lupin nodded, and George ducked his head. "Well… I'll keep on trying then. Thanks, Professor." Lupin smiled and inclined his head, and George hefted the box up. "Til later, then. See ya, Professor– or not." He winked and opened the door, heading out into the hallway.

Harry was waiting not far off down the corridor; George caught up to him, box slung easily under his arm. "I can't believe he's helping us with this," Harry said, shaking his head with a grin as they began to walk.

"Ah, c'mon, he'd a Marauder! Those guys were _legends;_ half the stuff Fred and I did, we ripped off from reading their detention reports…"

"How'd you get your hands on those?"

George winked. "Filch. He had us sort them for _our_ detention once… didn't realize his mistake until we charmed Mrs. Norris's red and gold. Actually, Lupin got us out of that one! Changed her back while Filch wasn't looking and told him he must've imagined it; oh, he was _spitting_ mad, Remus didn't fool him for a second…"

The pair were chortling all the way down to the great hall, where they found the younger Weasleys and Hermione eating breakfast. Ron was the first to notice, leaping to his feet. "George!" he exclaimed, clambering over the bench.

"Hey, little bro." The older redhead laughed and clapped the younger on the back. When they drew back, George gave his brother a grin and a little nod, which Ron understood and returned.

"What're you doing here?"

"Eh, well, Lupin needed some more help with his class stuff so I popped up. Found Harry in the hallway and decided to stay for the game. Hufflepuff vs. Slytherin, right?"

"Yeah. Here's hoping Hufflepuff wins, yeah?"

"They're a good team," George said, sitting down beside his brother and helping himself to a plate of sausages, "but they lost some solid players… who's seeker?" Maxwell Summerby, the seeker from the previous year, had decided not to return after the battle.

"Danny O'Riely."

George's face fell. "O'Riely? Little blond kid?" Ron nodded, and George whistled. "Poor guy. He won't stand a chance against Malfoy."

"Oh, but you wouldn't know!" Ginny realized, surprised. "Malfoy's backup this year. Perry Tucker is the lead Slytherin seeker."

"What? How'd that happen?"

Hermione piped up: "Malfoy and Zabini– he's captain of the team now– had a falling out. Zabini was being a, well–"

"–A royal arse," said Ron bluntly. "He was picking on Lavender."

"Well, yes, that's one way to put it," Hermione continued primly. "Anyway, it seems Malfoy didn't take kindly to that–"

"Whoa, wait a moment," George interrupted. "Are you saying that snotty little git defended a werewolf? That's not exactly the Malfoy style."

"We don't understand it, either," said Harry with a shrug. "We think it's got something to do with Lupin, but it's not like Malfoy's talking–"

"–And now Zabini's put him as seeker-reserve," Ron concluded, biting into a muffin. "That's as much as we know about it. Anyhow, without him this match is a bit of a toss-up. Could go either way."

"Hn. Well, here's to Hufflepuff, eh?" George lifted his glass of pumpkin juice in toast, and the others laughed, joining in.

Soon enough they were all making their way down to the pitch; Harry and George managed to lose themselves in the shuffle, and, once they'd sufficiently separated themselves from the crowds, Harry handed the redhead his Invisibility Cloak. "Be careful with that," he ordered. "It's a family heirloom."

"I know, I know! Sheesh, you'd think you were giving me a priceless moving map of the school! Oh, _wait…"_

"Oh, just– shut up and get under the Cloak already." He waited until George and the box had disappeared under the Cloak, and then nodded towards the commentator's stand. "Follow me."

He and George made their way up the steps, the former trying to look as nonchalant as possible, giving a polite nod to Madame Hooch when she passed and knocking on the doorpost when he reached the top.

McGonagall turned, took one look at him and pursed her lips. "Get out."

Harry did his best to mimic Lupin's look of baffled innocence. "Pardon?"

"I know that look. Your father used to have it whenever he was about to– to turn someone's hair purple or stick all my desks to the ceiling." She pointed to the door. "Get out of my commentator box, Potter."

"Professor–"

"Out!"

 _"Professor, wait."_

She jumped and whirled around, wand already drawn, as George tugged off the Cloak. McGonagall blinked several times, and then scowled. "Ooh, that Cloak! The number of times I lost those boys because of it– what are you two planning? No, I don't want to know! Out!"

"A perfectly natural reaction," George said hastily, eyeing her wand as if it had suddenly dawned on him that hexing an unexpected visitor on school grounds was well within her legal rights, "But not, I think, a fully informed one."

McGonagall arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"

George grinned and looked to Harry, who nodded. He opened the cover of the box. "Allow us to explain…"

* * *

Down on the field, the Slytherin team had lined up on the eastern side of the pitch, the starters waiting for takeoff as the backups took their seats on the benches, hot ciders in hand to keep warm. Only Draco Malfoy was standing, helping Perry Tucker check over his armor and broom. "–Make sure to keep your eye out for bludgers," he warned, tightening the straps on the younger boy's arm brace. "You can't find a snitch if you're passed out on the ground."

"Got it," Tucker said nervously.

"It's clear weather today, so if you stay above the game you'll have a better chance of seeing the snitch when the sun hits it. All the school snitches are set within an eighty meter radius; that's ten meters past the border of the pitch's length and about thirty past its width, but it's more likely than not to be inside the field at any given moment of play, so focus your energy there. And for goodness' sakes, keep your head: don't let the Hufflepuffs rile you up, and don't you try to get in _their_ heads, either; I lost a snitch myself to Potter that way once."

"Yeah?" Tucker questioned, unable to keep from smirking.

"Was floating right by my bloody ear," the Malfoy grumbled, apparently still annoyed all these years later. Nevertheless, he smiled and slapped the boy's shoulder. "You'll do fine, Tucker. Besides," he added with a laugh, "they're only Hufflepuffs. Just keep your mind on the game."

 _"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,"_ a voice boomed out over the field, drawing their attention. _"WELCOME TO OUR SECOND QUIDDITCH MATCH OF THE SEASON: SLYTHERIN VS. HUFFLEPUFF!"_

The crowds cheered; Draco groaned as he recognized the voice. "Bloody fantastic."

"MY NAME IS HARRY POTTER, AND I WILL BE YOUR COMMENTATOR FOR TODAY'S MATCH! BUT FIRST… COURTESY OF WEASLEY WIZARD'S WHEEZIES, WE HAVE A LITTLE PRODUCTION FOR YOU!"

Several people screamed as the loud noises like muggle gunshots rang out– but no, it wasn't gunshots at all; fireworks were exploding overhead, great sunbursts of reds and golds raining down on the stands, fantastic periwinkle blues exploding in the shapes of snowflakes, and in the center of it all a white sparkler was spelling out the words:

 _GINNY WEASLEY: YULE BALL?_

The whole cheering crowd turned to look the Gryffindor stands, where the Weasley was going as red as her hair, laughing. _"Yes, you git!"_ Draco saw her mouth, and Potter make a victory fist.

"THAT'S A YES, FOLKS! SORRY, GENTS, BUT THE BEST BIRD IN THE CROWD IS NOW OFFICIALLY TAKEN! AGAIN, SINCEREST THANKS TO WEASLEY'S WIZARD WHEEZES!"

The crowd applauded appreciatively as George Weasley took a bow. With the shrill shriek of Madame Hooch's whistle, the fireworks puttered out, and the players stalked out to the middle of the field. Draco watched as Blaise shook the Hufflepuff captain's hand and swallowed back a wave of envy. Another sharp whistle sounded, and the players rose into the air; Draco caught a glimpse of gold as the snitch was released, and then it was out of sight.

"AND IT'S ZABINI WITH THE QUAFFLE, HEADING FOR THE HUFFLEPUFF GOALS! ZABINI TO THORNE– THORNE TO WYGHT–"

The Hufflepuff keeper dove to block the shot, but missed by a hair's breath; the quaffle soared through the hoop, and Draco cheered with the best of them. The game was off to a good start.

"WYGHT SCORES! TEN-ZERO TO SLYTHERIN, AND IT'S HENRIETTA MAC'CARTHY OF HUFFLEPUFF WITH THE QUAFFLE!"

The match flew by quickly; both teams were very good offense, but Draco noticed that the green were a bit lacking in defense. If he were captain, he thought grumpily, he would have fixed that by now. He shot a foul look at Zabini; stupid git had never even played for the house team until last year…

 _Stop being jealous and focus on the match._ He scanned the field; Perry Tucker was floating above the rest of the players, looking carefully over the rest of the field. Draco jumped slightly as Wyght dove near to the edge of the field to catch the falling quaffle, and sped off again towards the goals.

"WYGHT WITH THE QUAFFLE– NOW ZABINI– AND– INTERCEPTION BY CADWALLADER! CADWALLADER DOWN THE PITCH– NOW TO HIRSCH– BACK TO CADWALLADER, AND– _HEY!_ THAT'S A FOU– _WOAH!"_

The whole crowd was on their feet shouting; Thorne had tried to "blurt" Cadwallader's broom to his, which succeeded in steering the holding chaser off-course but also prompted the furious Hufflepuff to draw his wand. Draco winced as he saw tentacled boils break out all over Thorne's face. Madame Hooch was blowing her whistle furiously.

"Foul! Foul on both sides!" she bellowed, flying up and trying to separate the boys, but it seemed a full-out duel had erupted mid-air. By the time the officials managed to disarm the both of them, Thorne's face had taken on the appearance of a mutant octopus, while Cadwallader's eyelids had glued themselves shut, rendering him quite unable to see. "That is enough!" the referee snapped, pulling them both off their brooms as they landed (half to guide Cadwallader, half to shame Thorne). A duel, in mid-air! Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?"

"Sorry, Madame," Cadwallader mumbled, facing the wrong direction.

"I'll take it from here, Rolanda," called Madame Pomfrey, bustling up and grabbing both boys by their ears. "This way, you two; I'll get you sorted in the infirmary…" She pulled them off towards the castle.

Blaise and the Hufflepuff captain were each forced to substitute in a player, and the game resumed. Hufflepuff scored two goals and pulled even, before Blaise sent the quaffle through the hoop again. "GOAL BY ZABINI, SIXTY-FIFTY; QUAFFLE BACK IN HUFFLEPUFF POSITION! HIRSCH HEADING FOR THE SLYTHERIN GOAL– BLOODY HELL, LOOK AT HIM GO–!"

 _"MR. POTTER! LANGUAGE!"_

"Sorry, Professor, Ron's rubbing off on me– AND IT'S BLOCKED BY SLYTHERIN KEEPER JAMISON! QUAFFLE IN SLYTHERIN POSESSION AND– _WAIT A MINUTE, I THINK TUCKER'S SEEN SOMETHING!"_

In fact Perry Tucker _had_ seen something; quick as a flash the seeker was diving for the ground, O'Riely hot on his tail but Tucker maintaining his lead. He stretched out his hand just as the Hufflepuff beater fifty feet above him swung at a bludger, and Draco leapt to his feet as he realized what was going to happen. _"Tucker, look out–!"_

The ricochet of wood on metal was drowned out by the screaming crowds as the bludger drove the speeding Perry Tucker off his broom and into the ground. Yet despite the din, there was one sound Draco Malfoy still heard loud and clear: the distinct _crack_ of fracturing bone as the boy slammed into the frozen dirt.

In that instant, all thought left his brain; he moved without thinking, rushing forward and dropping to his knees beside the boy. Tucker's face was pale; he struggled for breath, but he managed to whimper, _"H-hurts."_

"I know, kid. Hold still; you're going to be okay." He drew his wand. _"Spina dorsi diagnosi."_

"F-fingers… can't m-move…"

Within a moment Draco knew why, and let out a breath of relief; the spark-diagram in front of him showed that Tucker's spine had been broken at the fifth vertebra. For a muggle, it would have been a near-fatal diagnosis, but so long as nobody tried to move the boy, St. Mungo's would be able to repair it. "I know. Tucker, listen to me, you're going to be alright, but I need you to stay calm, alright? Just don't move; St. Mungo's will be here soon." He cast about for a happy memory and, much to his surprise, landed upon the moment Lavender Brown had pecked his cheek and then dashed off, blushing with embarrassment…

 _"Expecto patronum!"_

A silvery dragon burst to life and turned to him, and Draco ordered: "St. Mungo's Hospital, London, emergency room. We need an emergency medical team at the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch; C5 vertebra fracture. Hurry!" The dragon nodded and flew off, vanishing into the blue.

"Sweet St. Guenivere!" He looked up to see Madame Pomfrey racing over to meet him. "What happened?"

"Bludger accident. C5 vertebra fracture; I've sent a patronus to St. Mungo's."

Even as he said it, Professor McGonagall hurried up to him, a troop of green-robed emergency healers following close behind and shunting him aside. Within seconds, Tucker had been elevated onto a stretcher and portkeyed away. Madame Pomfrey turned to him, breathless.

"You wonderful boy. Thank goodness you were here… if anyone else had tried to help him, they might well have killed him."

The Slytherin blushed slightly and lowered hid head. "It wasn't anything, really. Just a diagnostic charm."

"It was more than that." He turned to see Headmistress McGonagall looking back at him; it was then that he realized she must have been the one to lift the apparition wards. "You may have just saved Perry Tucker's life. You should be very proud."

The young man looked up, surprised, and then smiled, just a hint. "Thank you, Professor."

"Naturally. As it happens, the snitch has yet to be caught; of course, considering what you've just done, I wouldn't be surprised if you were a bit shaken–"

"I'm alright," he replied, and it was the truth. He caught their eyes and knew that they understood.

McGonagall inclined her head. "Very well. Madame Hooch, at your whistle."

"The game will continue. Mr. Malfoy, to the midline, if you please."

He nodded and hurried over to where both his teammates and the Hufflepuffs were being held back by the other teachers. "How's Tucker?" Sarah Wyght demanded.

"He'll be okay. St. Mungo's knows how to handle spinal fractures."

"We'll have to finish the match without him," Blaise said shortly. "Rye, you'll play seeker."

Martha Rye, Sarah's backup chaser, looked to him in shock. "What?"

"You heard me. Get your greeves on."

The other members looked around at each other, deeply uncomfortable. Draco was fuming; trust Blaise to hold a grudge to the point of throwing away a match. He opened his mouth–

"No."

He looked over, surprised. Martha Rye was holding her head high. "No way, captain," she repeated, "I'm not going to help us lose the game. You've been right unfair to Malfoy ever since tryouts; he deserves to play."

Zabini glowered. "Fine," he snapped, "Consider yourself off the team, Rye. Yates! You're up!"

The fifth-year hesitated and then shook his head. "Sorry, cap. This is bogus; you can't really mean to throw the game!"

"He's right, Zabini. This is mad!"

"I'm not throwing the cup just 'cause you two have a grudge! Let him play!"

The captain was growing visibly irritated, caught between a rock and a hard place. Draco turned to Blaise, a pencil-thin blond eyebrow raised. "It's your game, Blaise," he said coolly. "Do you want that cup or not?"

* * *

The cold November wind sang in his ears as he soared over the pitch. White sunlight gleamed hard and bright in the blue sky; Draco grinned as he saw Sarah Wyght make another goal. They were gaining on Hufflepuff, who'd pulled ahead. He scanned the pitch, attentive to any gleam of sunlight on metal; for a moment he thought he spotted something, but in the next second it had vanished. He glanced over to O'Riely, who, remaining stationary in midair, Draco supposed was having as little luck as he was.

A cheering arose from the Hufflepuff stands; Draco looked over sharply and saw that the badgers had put another quaffle through the hoop. Cursing under his breath, he took a loop of the pitch, and then another half, settling on the opposite side. Nothing… nothing…

Against his will, his gaze drifted over to the Gryffindor stands and caught on a very distinctive raspberry cloak. Lavender Brown pinked and looked away; Draco did the same. Ever since she'd kissed him outside the Gryffindor common room, Brown had suddenly become rather elusive, vanishing around corners whenever he saw her in the halls and not speaking a word to him in class. Draco had decided that she was avoiding him and, although he wasn't surprised, he found himself surprisingly depressed about the whole matter. _Well, why would she want you?_ he sneered at himself. _Who'd want to get caught snogging a Death Eater?_ Not that she'd really snogged him– barely a peck it was, a friendly gesture, and one she obviously regretted–

"–AND O'RIELY'S OFF! HE'S SEEN THE SNITCH!"

Draco jumped and swore aloud as he realized that Danny O'Riely was streaking for the ground; he took off without a moment's waste, speeding after the yellow-jerseyed seeker. The snitch was a tricky one; it dodged out of the way and forced O'Riely to make a hairpin turn, allowing Draco to catch up behind him– he pulled forward, past the tail of the broom, but even as he watched O'Riely's hand brushed the silver wings–

Sudden memory struck, and Draco threw himself forward off the broom. He felt his fingers close around the snitch a moment before he was in free-fall, hurtling towards the ground, the crowd screamed as he drew his wand and–

 _FLUMPF!_

Draco bounced once, twice, and then tumbled to the ground, wand still in hand, as the bubble charm behind him vanished. Grinning, he punched his fist into the air, feeling the tiny silver wings flutter wildly against his hands, and the crowd roared.

"AND SLYTHERIN CATCHES THE SNITCH, 220 – 90! OY, MALFOY, CAME UP WITH THAT MOVE ON YOUR OWN, DID YOU?!"

"MR. POTTER, IF I HEAR ONE MORE PERSONAL COMMEONT OUT OF YOU–!"

The whistle was blown; the other players touched down behind him, Sarah Wyght with his broom in hand. Draco turned and met Blaise's eye. The captain looked as if he couldn't decide between being happy about the victory and livid about the fact that Draco had brought it about. The seeker decided to make the decision for him, walking forward and handing Blaise the snitch as he passed.

"You're welcome," he called back over his shoulder, and was delighted to see the look of steaming fury that crossed the captain's face.

* * *

Monday had begun as a good day for Harry. He had passed his defense exam with flying colors, received his transfiguration essay back with a better grade than expected, and best of all they had been served treacle tart for desert with lunch. It was because of the tart, in fact, that he was now running late to his first occlumency lesson. He'd stayed for desert and lost track of time until Ron had pointed out that it was already twenty past twelve, forcing him to grab his bag and sprint out of the Great Hall, up three flights of stairs and down several corridors.

Lupin and Malfoy were already waiting in the classroom by the time Harry arrived, the latter sitting on the front of a desk and twirling his wand between his fingers. "Well, look who finally showed up," he drawled, stepping down. "Nice of you to make an appearance, Potter."

Harry very nearly walked out right then and there, but Lupin gave Malfoy a warning look and raised his hand to the door. Harry jumped as it shut behind him. "How'd you do that?" he demanded, startled.

The professor snorted. "With the full moon in ten days? I could just about levitate if I wished." The boys looked appropriately impressed, and Lupin nodded his head towards the front of the room. "Alright, both of you, line up there."

They followed orders, both glancing at each other in turn with obvious mistrust, and Remus had to work not to sigh. This was going to be a trying task, he could already tell.

"Alright, well," he said candidly, eyeing them both, "Let's begin by addressing the elephant in the room. It's no secret to me that the two of you are not, ah, particularly fond of one another–"

The two let out a snort in unison and then looked at each other, surprised.

"–But," Remus continued, "that hardly excuses you– _either_ of you–" He gave them each a stern look, "–from showing one another the proper respect. That means no snide comments, no grumbling, no personal remarks, not so much as a single uncharitable look. I want _strict professionalism_ between the two of you, am I understood?"

Though they hardly looked happy about it, the pair grudgingly muttered something which Remus took to signify assent. "Moreover," he added, "as both of you well know, the human mind is an incredibly sensitive and personal matter. As such, I will be personally guiding these exercises;I trust, Mr. Malfoy, that you understand and will respect the gravity of this responsibility."

"Of course, Professor," the blond replied smoothly. Harry shot him a suspicious glance, but remembered what Lupin had said and quickly looked away.

"Very well. Both of you, wands out, face each other…"

And so began one of the most interesting lessons of Harry's life. Lupin's style of teaching occlumency was as different from Professor Snape's as a billywig was from a blast-ended skrewt. The first thing the professor did was instruct Harry to recall several memorable songs or nursery rhymes from his childhood, much to both of the students' confusion. When Harry asked why, Remus paused, surprised.

"Didn't you use this method with Professor Snape?"

Harry shook his head. Lupin looked to Malfoy, who did the same.

"Well, how did he teach you?"

"Er– well, he told me to clear my mind," Harry offered. "Didn't help much…"

Malfoy snorted, and Harry rounded on him. "Something you wanna say, Malfoy?"

"Gentlemen, please," Lupin sighed, already sounding weary. "So he taught you the blank-slate method, did he?"

"I guess so…"

"That was how Aunt Bella taught me, as well," Malfoy offered. Harry felt his skin crawl at hearing Bellatrix Lestrange referred to as 'Aunt Bella,' but bit his tongue.

"Well, perhaps clearing one's thoughts was a manageable task for Lestrange and Professor Snape, and I commend you if you've mastered it yourself, Mr. Malfoy, but I daresay that for the rest of us it's a rather difficult point to start from, no?" Harry nodded emphatically. "The method I was taught by my father began with a mental distraction; from there one can advance to presenting false memories or even fighting off the invader… Mr. Potter, please take Mr. Malfoy's arm."

Harry's eyes went wide; this was the last thing he'd been expecting. "What?"

"Physical contact," Malfoy answered for him. "It makes a mental connection stronger. I suppose you want to demonstrate, Professor?"

"Just so. His arm, Harry."

Harry looked nervously to Malfoy, who did not look as if he found the notion any more appealing than the Gryffindor did, but did as told and awkwardly placed a hand on Malfoy's shoulder. "Now," Lupin continued, apparently unaware– or simply unsympathetic– to their obvious discomfort, "When I was, oh, thirteen or so, I failed my Christmas end-of-term potions final. I distinctly remember setting the table on fire…"

Both of the boys chuckled despite themselves, and then looked at each other in shock. Remus had to fight to keep a grin from twitching his mouth; this might just work. "It should have an emotional signature– mainly embarrassment– tied to it, so you'll be able to find it fairly easily, Mr. Malfoy."

"You want me to use legilimency against you, Sir?" Malfoy said, surprised. "Are you sure?"

"Certainly. I'm hardly upset by the memory now; potions simply isn't one of my strong suits," the professor said with a chuckle. "Go on, Draco."

After a moment of hesitance, the Slytherin gathered his will. Silver eyes bore into the hazel, and suddenly, Harry had the strange sensation of being forced to remember things he had never seen:

 _–The pink-haired woman turned and caught his eye, brown irises glinting–_

 _–The trio of boys poured out wrapped packages of chocolates and hard-candies onto the hospital bed–_

 _–Golden eyes glowing in the darkness–_

And then suddenly, the memory stabilized, as if Remus had been waiting for them to find it. Harry found himself in the potion's dungeon, the room filled with swirling steams of various shades of purple. A thirteen-year-old Remus was in front of him, struggling desperately to correct the noxious sulfur-yellow clouds that were billowing from his cauldron. The sound of snickering drew his attention, and Harry looked over to see a young Severus Snape trying half-heartedly not to laugh. Remus shot him a furious look and, in doing so, overshot his reach for the bottle of centipede legs, knocking over the heavy cauldron. The Slytherin girl with whom he was sharing a desk shrieked and leapt to her feet as the table burst into flames; the class stared in shock or laughed mercilessly as the young werewolf went red and tried desperately to put out the flames with his wand–

 _Pais Dinogad sydd fraith, fraith,_

 _O groen y bela y mae'i waith_

 _"Chwi! Chwi!" Chwibanwaith_

 _Gwaeddwn ni, waeddant hwy – yr wyth gaeth._

The image vanished suddenly as the melody began; Harry could feel Malfoy struggling to break through the resistance, but the harder he tried, the louder and faster the chanting grew:

 _Pan elai dy dad di I hel–_

 _Gwaywffon ar ei ysgwydd, pastwn yn ei law–_

 _Galwai ar gwn tra chyflym_

 _"Giff! Gaff! Dal, dal! Dwg, dwg!"…_

Eventually, the Slytherin gave up, and Harry blinked several times as the classroom came back into view. "As you can see, once mastered, the method is highly effective," Lupin said lightly, looking perfectly at ease. "It helps if the rhyme used is in a different language than that of the attacker, but the main idea is to be able to concentrate on it and nothing else until your opponent retreats." He gestured towards Harry. "What do you say we give it a go?"

Harry blinked. "What, now?" He wasn't prepared for this; he'd hoped he would be able to go at least one lesson without Malfoy prying into his thoughts…

Lupin, it seemed, had other ideas. "No time like the present," he replied calmly, but in a tone that was not to be questioned. Harry swallowed his unease and took his place a few feet away, facing the blond. He could tell by Malfoy's face that the mistrust was mutual.

"Very good. Now, Harry, on your very first day of my class in third year, I taught you how to fight a boggart, correct?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Do you happen to recall what form my boggart took?"

The memory of a silvery moon crashing to the floor like glass flitted through his mind. "Yeah, it was a–"

But Lupin held up a hand. "You don't need to answer. Mr. Malfoy, I want you to attempt to locate that memory. Harry, the moment you feel the intrusion I want you to think of a song or rhyme you know well; focus on nothing but that song. Do you understand?" Both boys nodded, and Remus settled a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Alright… let's give it a go."

Harry turned and faced Malfoy apprehensively, tensing on instinct and ready to defend himself if the Slytherin drew his wand. Malfoy looked back with hard silver eyes, which rather reminded Harry of an owl ready to swoop down on an unsuspecting mouse. He forced himself to divert his thoughts, thinking of anything except the lesson or the moon or even Lupin at all–

The attack began without warning. The feeling of another consciousness side-by-side with his own was far less subtle than Professor Snape's had ever been, riffling through memories at a random, and Harry caught fleeting glimpses of other recollections. For a moment he was playing Quidditch at the Weasleys', or eating a bowl of Hermione's weak mushroom soup, or watching Remus smile sadly as he told Harry he had enjoyed being his professor–

Harry felt Malfoy clamp down hard on that emotion, the particular sensation of familial affection and trust that he had always unconsciously associated with Lupin. The memories came in a torrent now: first his patronus lessons, then his relief at hearing Remus's voice at the Dursleys', the Shrieking Shack, the confrontation at No. 12, his suspicions at the Burrow–

Harry realized what he was doing just in time and forcibly redirected his train of thoughts to the first song that popped into his mind, an annoyingly bubbly '60's tune that often played on the radio. He felt Malfoy's repeated badgering against the fringes of his thoughts, trying to take hold of the memories again, until at last Harry found he couldn't remember the next verse and his resistance broke, bringing the memory of the shattering full moon to the forefront of his mind. After a moment or two, Malfoy's consciousness seemed to withdraw, and Harry opened his eyes.

Remus was positively _smirking_ with amusement, while Malfoy was staring at him with a look of utter bewilderment. "What in Merlin's name is a yellow sub–marine?" he demanded, nonplussed.

This caused Remus to finally lose his composure and burst out laughing, bracing himself on the nearest desk for balance. Harry flushed and shot him a glare. "It's a muggle song," he answered defensively. "My uncle hates it; always changes the station if it comes on…"

Remus was wiping away tears, still chuckling to himself. "Merlin's beard, if that doesn't bring me back… Alright, well, that was a remarkable first attempt, Harry, very nice indeed, but you mustn't let him get so far through; you noticed that once he latched onto your memories of me, it became much easier for him?" Harry nodded, still a little red at the cheeks. "Next time, try to head him off the moment you sense the intrusion. Let's give it another try, shall we…?"

The rest of the hour progressed with little more improvement; although Malfoy was far less subtle than Professor Snape had been, he was also incredibly relentless, battering at any defense Harry put up with a mental fortitude and persistence that always eventually succeeded in breaking through his resistance. Still, by the time Remus dismissed them, the Gryffindor was feeling remarkably pleased with himself; Lupin's method was far more effective than Snape's had been, and he felt that at least this time around, he stood a chance at actually mastering the craft.

For several seconds this rush of contentment sufficed to make him forget whose company he currently occupied, but as he rounded a corner he caught sight of Malfoy walking beside him. The Slytherin glanced at him in the same moment, and Harry quickly looked away, biting his tongue. He felt he should say something, to cut the tension if nothing else, but he didn't know what. He wasn't sure he'd ever had a conversation with Malfoy that hadn't ended with one of them cursing or insulting the other.

They came to a crossroads between hallways; Malfoy turned to go, and, although Harry knew he was free to walk away, the words slipped out before he could stop them:

"Thank you."

Malfoy turned, surprised. "What?"

Harry opened his mouth to reply, hesitated, and then said again, "Thank you. For agreeing to help, I mean."

The Slytherin studied him suspiciously for a moment, as if looking for any ulterior motive. Harry did his best not to look guilty, though for what, he didn't know.

"…Don't thank me," the blond said at last, coolly. "I'm not doing it for you; it's a favor for the Professor."

Harry nodded. "Right. Well… anyhow, I appreciate it."

"Fine."

"Okay."

The two watched one another a minute more, and then simultaneously turned on their heels and parted ways. As he walked along, it suddenly occurred to Harry that he and Draco Malfoy had actually shared a half-civil conversation.

 _What the hell just happened?_

* * *

Remus woke early Wednesday morning, not to the chiming of his alarm-bell, but to the soft noises of someone rummaging through the dresser drawers. He yawned and sat up, looking around.

The room was still dark, covered in the thick gray shadows of early morning. In the dim light he caught a glimpse of a muted pink hair and smiled. "Morning, love."

Dora turned, her warm eyes glinting in the darkness. "Morning," she said softly, creeping over. "I was just about to head out."

"Mm." He paused. "…Teddy slept through the night again."

"I know. Isn't it marvelous?"

"Mmm."

His wife snickered at his lack of verbosity and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Help me with my tie?"

Remus was confused for a moment, before he noted the uniform oxford and skirt his wife was wearing and recalled the day. With a slight chuckle he took the tie in hand and looped it around the back of her neck. "Didn't you ever learn to do this yourself?"

"No. I had to get Margaret O'Toole to tie it every morning; I never could get it right…"

"It's not exactly ancient runes, Dora."

"Oh, stop being such a git," she huffed, much to his amusement.

"Let me see now, it's odd doing this backwards… cross, under, over, behind… around the front, behind again, and through the loop. Then tighten it up." He finished off the knot and tucked it up under the crisp oxford collar.

"Thanks."

"You're sure this is the knot she wears?"

"Does it matter?" Remus gave her a look, and she sighed. "Well if your students figure it out from whether or not she wears a Full or Half Windsor, love, I don't think they'll need much training."

"Hmm. We'll see."

"Mmm." Dora leaned forward and gave him a lingering kiss, before drawing back. "See you in class, _Professor,"_ she said with a grin, tapping him on the nose.

"Merlin, Dora, could you please not make me sound like an old pervert?" her husband groaned, but he was laughing all the same.

"Not my fault you married a younger woman, darling." She stood up and shouldered the borrowed bookbag.

"But it is your fault! It's exactly your fault!"

Dora merely laughed at him and walked out of the room, leaving Remus to fondly shake his head.

* * *

"So they're like– tiny glasses?"

Harry sighed, pulling his school sweater over his face. "Yes, Ron, they're called contact lenses. They go on your eyes."

"So why don't you wear them?"

"Because–" His head popped out of the top of the sweater, leaving him blinking like a bat in sunlight as he shoved his arms through the sleeves and reached for his glasses. "–Because I don't fancy poking myself in the eye every morning, that's why. Besides, where was I going to get them? Contacts are expensive, and you can bet the Dursleys weren't going to pay for them…"

"Yeah, but you've got loads of money now!"

"Ron, I _like_ my glasses. They make sure I don't run into walls and stuff, and unlike before, Dudley's not trying to turn my face into his personal heavyweight gym." He shrugged, fitting the spectacles over his eyes. "Besides, it's not like I can't fix them if they get broken."

"I'm just saying, it'd be cool," Ron said with a shrug as they left the dormitory. "Little invisible glasses in front of your eyes!"

"They're not invisible, and like I said, they go _on_ my eyes. It just– I dunno, it freaks me out! Hey, Ginny, Hermione."

The two girls were watching them with amusement from where they'd been waiting in the armchairs. "Hey," Ginny said with a grin, jumping up and giving Harry a peck on the cheek. "What're you talking about?"

"The merits of contact lenses," Harry supplied with a grin. "The latest and greatest in muggle technology, apparently."

Hermione laughed and patted her boyfriend's arm. "Don't strain yourself, Ron."

The redhead, offended, remained in a surly mood all the way down to the Great Hall, whereupon the sight of fresh eggs and bacon improved his temper considerably. As her brother piled his plate, Ginny turned to her boyfriend. "So how have occlumency lessons been going?"

Harry shrugged, reaching for a chocolate chip muffin. "Not as awful as I'd expected, honestly. Remus makes sure it's professional, and apparently Malfoy's agreed not to be such a major prick as usual…"

"I thtill thay yo'r mental," Ron said through a mouthful of eggs; he swallowed and continued, "Letting Malfoy dig around in your head like that? You couldn't pay me."

"Look, I'm not saying it's _enjoyable,_ but it's the best option I've got." Harry shrugged and took a bite off his muffin. "I'm not going to learn occlumency any other way."

"He's right, you know, Ron," Hermione pointed out. "Occlumency is a very useful skill for aurors, and besides, Remus wouldn't let Draco get away with anything suspicious."

Ron shook his head and declared them all mental once again, before gulping down a whole goblet of pumpkin juice.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter. Miss Granger, Mr. and Miss Weasley."

Harry, who had been snickering at Hermione's disgusted expression, turned in surprise. Professor McGonagall was standing just behind him, looking very tall and stern in deep plum robes. "Er– morning, Professor," the bespectacled wizard said, quickly wiping chocolate off his mouth with his napkin. "Anything we can do for you?"

"As it happens, Mr. Potter, there is. If I might have a word with you in my office?" At his suddenly panicked expression, she added, "It's nothing critical, simply a matter that oughtn't be discussed in hearing range of every ear in the Great Hall."

"Oh. Er, alright."

"Excellent. Do come along."

Still nervous despite her reassurances, Harry wrapped up the rest of the muffin and some bacon in his napkin and follow after the headmistress, shooting a worried glance over his shoulder to his friends. Ron gave him a mournful little wave.

He followed McGonagall all the way up to the griffin statue which guarded the door, who stirred to life when they approached. _"Lavoisier's Law of Conservation,"_ she stated, and the gargoyle leapt aside.

The door at the top of the staircase was slightly ajar; McGonagall pushed it inwards and beckoned Harry inside. As he had the last time he'd been in the office, he couldn't help but notice that the décor was different than it had been when Professor Dumbledore occupied the room; although the same bookshelves were present, they were now far more neatly organized, and fuller, no doubt with the addition of the Headmistress's own books to those of her predecessors. The little table of odd silver instruments was gone, though in its place was a telescope and several scientific-looking instruments, including potions beakers and a chemist's scale. A radio was playing softly in the corner, and there were motionless muggle pictures scattered here and there throughout the room of people he could only assume were her family and old friends. By far the most interesting change, however, were the vintage gleaming black typewriter and model 102 telephone sitting on the desk.

McGonagall caught his eye and nodded. "It's the closest I can get to modern technology. Faster than owl and quill; Merlin knows my job would be easier if only we could use more electricity here…"

"I didn't know you knew how to use them," Harry said with a grin.

"My father was a muggle, and quite good with technology, at least for his day; he used to love fixing up old radios or broken clocks…" She gestured for him to take a seat in the chair opposite hers, which he did. "No doubt you know by now, Mr. Potter," she began, "that the Potter accounts have finally been unfrozen."

"Yeah, Lupin told me. Haven't gotten a statement myself, though," he grumbled.

The headmistress eyed him, and she seemed near to smiling. "You _did_ cause major structural damage to the bank, not to mention stole a priceless heirloom and a _dragon._ You should feel lucky that this is the only revenge the Gringotts goblins are taking."

Harry still looked annoyed, but acquiesced. "Fine, fine… what did you want to talk to me about then, Professor?"

The headmistress reached into her desk drawer and removed a leaf of parchment. "It recently came to the school's attention that your parents left a sizeable donation to the school, to be paid out on the first day of July of this year. Due to the backlog, we only received the grant last week, but it has sufficiently covered all of the debt the school acquired to rebuild from the battle last May."

 _"All_ of it?" Harry demanded. He couldn't even imagine how many galleons it had taken to pay for the repairs…

It seemed, however, he didn't have to. McGonagall slid the paper across the desk and watched as the young man's eyes scanned the document. Those same eyes suddenly went wide as they hit the galleon total at the bottom, and his mouth dropped open.

"As you can imagine," McGonagall said, "The favor the Potter Estate has done for the school was… was more than we ever could have hoped for. As Lily and James are not here to receive our _– my–_ gratitude, I thought it only proper to extend my thanks to their son." Harry looked up, surprised, and McGonagall inclined her head. "We are deeply in your family's debt."

Harry looked down at the paper again, stunned to silence both at the bolded number at the bottom and at his parents' generosity. He felt incredibly humbled. "I… you're welcome, I guess," he said weakly. "Or I think that's what my parents would say, anyway."

The headmistress nodded. "I know it's a rather large responsibility to put on your shoulders, but if there is anything the school can ever do for your family, do let us know."

"I– I will, thanks." Still unsure what to think of the situation, he stood. "Er– do you mind if I–"

McGonagall waved a hand airily. "Certainly; do have a good day, Mr. Potter."

"I– yes– thank you–" He shouldered his bag and was just heading for the door, head still whirling, when something caught his eye. Surprised, he glanced over, and immediately drew to a halt.

Professor McGonagall, who it seemed had begun filling out some sort of official-looking form, noted his pause and looked up. "Mr. Potter?"

Harry hesitated and then drew the book from the shelf, turning around. In his hands lay a copy of the infamous _Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore._ "…You've read it?" he said, looking up at the headmistress with surprise and even a hint of anger.

McGonagall didn't seem the slightest bit perturbed; rather, she stood up and walked around the desk, accepting the book as he handed it to her. "Rita Skeeter sent me a copy. Seemed to think I had a deep-seated desire to know all of Albus's personal history."

"…And… what did you think of it?"

She snorted, setting the book back in its place on the shelf. "I think Skeeter isn't half as good at her job as she thinks she is." At Harry's surprised expression, she added, "I worked alongside Albus for forty years, Mr. Potter; we became very good friends, and any illusion I might have had of him as the wizarding world's newest messiah was very quickly dashed." Her lips quirked slightly. "I was well aware of his many faults, and there was little in that sordid pack of half-truths that I didn't already know. Rita didn't even understand the half of it."

"There's _more?"_ Harry exclaimed before he could stop himself, uncertain whether he could take any more unpleasant truths about the old headmaster.

McGonagall glanced at him sharply. "Mr. Potter, I'll remind you that a morbid curiosity in the faults of others is not a good habit to cultivate!"

"Er- right," he said hastily, a little ashamed. "Sorry."

She eyed him for another moment, and then her expression softened. "I assure you, Harry, that the secrets I keep on Albus's behalf have nothing to do with you or anyone else; they're simply very personal matters that he did not often choose to divulge, and of which it is not my place to reveal. You would surely do the same for Mr. Weasely or Miss Granger, would you not?"

Harry thought back to the way Ron had broken down after being tormented by Riddle's locket, the worst of his flaws and insecurities having been laid torturously bare. Never, not in a million years, would he ever tell anyone what that locket had said to his best friend. "Yeah, I guess I would," he agreed.

"He truly did love you, you know," the headmistress added, voice uncharacteristically gentle. "He wept for hours after he realized the truth."

"What- you mean that I was a Horcrux?" She nodded. "I thought he always knew…"

"Hardly," she replied quietly. "It was not until after you displayed your talent for Parseltongue and destroyed Riddle's diary in your second year that our suspicions were confirmed."

 _"Your_ suspicions– _you_ knew too?"

"I did."

He gaped, stunned. "But- why didn't you tell me?"

"You were only a child, Mr. Potter; twelve years old is so young, to realize the inevitability of death. You deserved as much of a normal childhood as we could give you."

"But when I was older," he pressed, the anger bubbling up despite his will, "When I was older, you ought to have- I mean-"

"It is a fault of mine, Mr. Potter, that I am occasionally so naïve as to believe those whom I admire are as forthright as I am." At his baffled frown, she clarified, "The night you came to me saying that you had seen Riddle's snake attack Arthur Weasely, I took note of the way you changed the story in the company of your friends. I assumed, incorrectly, that Albus had already informed you of your fate and that you, understandably, wished to keep such painful information to yourself for as long as possible. I did not realize you were still very much in the dark."

"But at my career meeting… I mean, I guess Umbridge was there, but still… You treated me like I was, I dunno, anyone else."

"Naturally," the headmistress replied, startled. "I knew, and assumed you knew, that you would eventually die at Riddle's hands; I had no way of knowing how close or far off this tragedy was. For all I knew it could be decades into the future. I could see no reason for you not to pursue a career in the meantime, and such a useful one at that."

"Yeah, I guess." But he didn't seem satisfied.

Minerva tilted her head, studying him. "Mr. Potter, if there is something you need to discuss, I promise, it won't leave this office."

"…It's just… I…" Harry floundered for a moment, ashamed to even think it, and then admitted, "…He manipulated a lot of people, Professor. Even me. How could he possibly have thought that that was, y'know, okay?"

McGonagall nodded and let out a heavy sigh, returning to her desk-chair. She sat down and appeared to think for several seconds, before asking: "How much do you know of Albus's childhood?"

"Er– well, I know a couple of muggle boys attacked his sister."

"True."

"Then his dad got back at them… and was sent to prison… his mum died, and then he and Grindlewald became friends. Then they got in a fight and Arianna died…"

"You have the general gist, then?" Harry nodded awkwardly, and McGonagall sighed again, peering at him through her spectacles with very sorrowful green eyes.

"Did you think," she said quietly, "that those poor three muggle boys were the first people to experience severity of Percival Dumbledore's temper?"

Harry stared at her, confused, and then it dawned on him. "You mean–?"

"It was a different time, Harry. Corporal punishment was… more common, and more extreme, than nowadays… Still, even then, Percival's harshness towards his children was far beyond the ordinary. He beat his sons terribly, even cursed them at times." Harry swallowed, and McGonagall shook her head. "He was a genuinely unhinged man, and a raging alcoholic at that. Kendra never dared speak against him, not even after Percival had been taken to Azkaban… suffice it to say that Albus's moral education was severely lacking in the one place it should be most accurately taught: the home. Considering that sort of environment… well, the 'greater good' was not the worst moral standard he could have chosen."

Harry nodded, looking down, and McGonagall's eyes softened. "It's not your fault; you didn't know," she said gently. "But please, don't be too harsh on him, Harry. I had the good fortune to grow up with a clear teaching of right from wrong; Albus was left alone to fumble along in the darkness, to try to discover the line on his own– much as you were." He glanced up, surprised, and she offered him a very small, sad smile. "If you will pardon the compliment, Harry, it is truly remarkable that, despite what you've faced in your short life, your natural intuition for good and evil has remained extraordinarily accurate. In that respect, you succeeded where he could not. I believe that was one of the reasons he admired you so greatly."

"…He admired me?" Harry said, a little surprised.

"More than you will ever know."

Harry pondered this for several moments, unsure of what to think. Thankfully, he was saved from having to answer when the clock on McGonagall's chimed quarter-to. "Well," she said, glancing to it. "I believe that is your cue."

"Er– right. Um, have a good day, Professor."

"Good day, Mr. Potter."

* * *

When Harry arrived at class, everyone was already in their desks, notes out and quills poised to write. Professor Lupin, who was carrying Teddy with one hand and inscribing the word _Metamorphagi_ in chalk on the blackboard with the other, nodded as Harry entered the room. "Ah, there you are, Harry. Take a seat, take a seat…"

"This is going to be wicked," Ron said under his breath, grinning. "How much you wanna bet Tonks helps him with the lesson?"

"She must be, mustn't she?" Hermione whispered, nodding to the baby. "Otherwise Teddy would be with her."

"Today," Lupin called, turning around and adjusting his grip on the gurgling Teddy, who looked excited to see so many new faces, "We are going to be having a bit of an unconventional lesson, as you have probably guessed." He ruffled Teddy's now-purple hair to the amusement of the students. "We are going to be playing a game of sorts."

The students perked up. A game? That sounded even better than a practical lesson. "You see," the professor continued with a light smile, "One of your fellow students is not who they say they are. One of them is _actually_ the incredibly talented and beautiful chief of aurors, otherwise known as my wife."

Everyone immediately turned to look at Harry, no doubt suspicious of the latecomer. "I give you this for free: it's not Mr. Potter!" Lupin called with amusement. Slowly the students turned back to him, curious. "Now, who can name to me some of the limitations of metamorphagizing? Miss Brown."

"They can't heal wounds, Sir," the Gryffindor witch replied, lowering her hand. "Or at least, not bad ones."

"Correct; anything else, then? Yes, Miss Granger."

"Metamorphagi are confined to their own gender, species, and general relative height," the witch rattled off. "They also cannot change their age, although they can appear to be older or younger based on characteristics."

"A textbook answer. Now, who here knows how to force a metamorphagus to drop their morph? Anyone?" Lupin scanned the room. "Come now; at least one of you must have an idea! Anyone at all?"

After a moment, Harry tentatively raised his hand; the professor caught his eye and nodded, and Harry replied nervously, "Er– well, a strong emotion can do it, Sir. Like if you startle them or… or upset them."

He could tell by Lupin's expression that the professor knew exactly what he was referencing, but the professor merely nodded and said, "Very good. Now, all of this considered, here is how the game will operate: hidden among you, in one of those very desks, is my wife, masquerading as your classmate. She will be attempting to petrify each of you; your objective is to figure out which of your classmates she is, and disarm her before she manages to hex the whole class. Oh, and a warning:–" Lupin added with a smile, "My wife is very good at non-verbal and delay charms, so I wouldn't advise sitting around waiting to see who points their wand at whom. Now: all of you, up! Come along, come along!"

The students arose from their desks, looking around uncertainly. "Delay charms?" Harry muttered to Hermione.

"They're a sort of magical timer, that you can put on curses and the like to delay their effects; very tricky magic, though, and not often worth the effort. Hmm…" She was studying the Patil twins with interest.

"Who d'you think it is?" Ginny inquired, sidling up to Harry. He shrugged.

"Dunno. Has to be a girl, though, doesn't it?"

"Hey, that's right!" Ron said, suddenly eyeing the two suspiciously, but Ginny only rolled her eyes.

"Honestly, Ron, Hermione and I have been together since this morning; _we'd_ know if it were one of us."

"Oh, right…"

Within five minutes, their fellow students had caught on to the same notion they had, resulting in most of the boys grouped together in one corner in a defensive position, glaring en masse at any witch who came too close. "This is ridiculous," Ron muttered to Harry as Seamus Finnegan elbowed him in the stomach. "Besides, it's not like anyone is going to get cursed if we're all standing like this…"

But that was where he was wrong. There came a gasp from the crowd behind them, and both turned to see that Justin Finch-Fletchy had fallen over, completely frozen. The crowd of boys scattered back, sparked by the terrifying realization that the attacker had managed to circumnavigate their defenses.

People began dropping like flies after that; first Hannah Abbot, then Neville Longbottom, and then– much to everyone's shock– Professor Lupin himself. "Bloody hell, we have to do something fast!" Ron muttered as Daphne Greengrass tipped over, only to be caught by Jeanie Sailor before she hit the floor; he, Harry, Ginny and Hermione had all gathered up against a wall, studying the chaos. "She's really good; no pattern to it at all–"

 _Thud!_ The floor shook as Gregory Goyle toppled backwards.

"They're on completely opposite sides of the room!" Ginny exclaimed.

"How is she moving this fast?" Hermione wondered. "It's almost like she's apparating from one part of the room to the other…"

Harry was baffled; he kept trying to catch a glimpse of Tonks among the other students, looking for any feature that wasn't quite right, trying to follow who'd been next to whom and when– but it was impossible to keep track. Everyone was in a panic; wild accusations were being made; one of the girls was even frantically trying to undo the hex on Professor Lupin, terrified that the game had gone horribly wrong…

"I have an idea," Ron said suddenly, drawing his attention.

"What?"

"I'll explain in a minute. Come with me, all of you."

Baffled, the other three followed him out into the middle of the floor. Ron looked around, surveying the situation with cool, shrewd eyes…

And then, without further ado, he turned and swept Hermione into a deep dip, clearly intent on kissing her.

Hermione let out a loud squawk of surprise and shoved him away, landing in a rather undignified heap as her hair turned bright purple. Ron smirked, picked up her wand and offered her a hand. "Need some help there, Tonks?"

The auror chuckled as the rest of the class laughed, her features morphing back to their proper alignment, and Ron pulled her to her feet. "How did you know?" she demanded as she crossed her arms, but she was grinning.

"Hermione knows _Hogwarts, a History_ like the back of her hand," Ron scoffed, returning her wand. "She'd think suggesting you could apparate anywhere in the school was blasphemy."

More laughter; Tonks rolled her eyes and cast the counter-charm, freeing the frozen students. "Fine, fine; you win."

"Indeed he does; five points to Gryffindor, Mr. Weasely," said Professor Lupin, eyes twinkling as he stood up and straightened his tweed jacket.

"Only five?"

"I'm taking ten for you trying to snog my wife. Ah, Miss Granger, welcome back!" For Hermione had left the office and was hurrying down the stairs, stifling her giggles with her hands. "Brilliant!" she exclaimed as she reached her boyfriend. "Absolutely brilliant, Ron."

"I wasn't really going to snog her," he reassured her.

"Oh, I know _that."_

Lupin cleared his throat loudly, alerting the couple that they were still in a full classroom. Both Ron and Hermione went red, the ginger rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. "Sorry, Professor."

"As you can see," Tonks said, taking over, "It can be very hard to spot a metamorphagus, especially if they've closely studied the subject they're impersonating. They can also–" she nodded to Ginny, "be working with an accomplice." Her features morphed to match the Weasley's. "The key," not-Ginny continued, "is to look for important differences– things the metamporphagus might not have thought to imitate. Can anyone spot any? Yes, Harry."

"Ginny's eyes are brown," the bespectacled wizard said with a smile. "Not blue."

"Excellent." Not-Ginny's eyes bloomed from blue to brown. "The other trick, of course, is to watch carefully for any change in features during a startling or shocking occurrence–"

 _BANG!_ The whole class jumped at the sudden noise, and not-Ginny's hair turned electric yellow. Tonks shot the impishly grinning Lupin a look. "Thank you so much, love," she drawled.

"Just trying to help, darling."

"Sure you were. Alright, you lot, eyes shut!" She pointed her wand at them with vehemence, causing several students to scoot out of the way. "Round two!"

Everyone obediently shut their eyes tight; there was the sound of footsteps moving all over the room, pausing every now and again, and then at last footsteps ascending the stairs. When Lupin called, "Eyes open!", Harry looked around to find that Tonks appeared to have vanished.

The class got progressively better over the next few rounds, grouping together and planning strategies to out the metamorphagus. Tonks, too, was forced to up her game; after she'd been found out for giving her imitation of Pansy Parkinson a sharp nose instead of snubbed, she began to choose more difficult targets. At one point it was discovered she had been imitating _both_ of the Patil twins, surreptitiously charming her tie red or blue as the situation demanded when the others weren't looking, and only revealed when Lavender Brown had shrewdly greeted "Parvati" in Hindi, to the bemusement of the British auror.

On one of her more difficult impersonations, where only a few students were left un-petrified, Lupin took pity on them and began munching on a bar of chocolate, prompting Luna Lovegood to whirl around with a very un-Luna scowl on her face and snatch the candy out of his hands. "Remus Lupin! I make your favorite soup for lunch and here you are ruining your appetite-!"

 _"Expelliarmus!"_ the remaining students cried at once, and the wand went flying out of her hand. Teddy chortled and clapped his hands, hair turning bright blue in delight.

The two-hour class flew by, and before they knew it the clock on Lupin's desk was chiming quarter to ten. "Excellent, everyone, very well done!" the professor called; with a wave of her wand, Millicent Bulstrode returned the petrified students to normal and morphed back into a grinning Nymphadora Lupin. "I'm very pleased with your progress; I think you're all going to do wonderfully on the exam. Let's all give a hand to Officer Lupin for her help, shall we?"

"Hear, hear!" Harry shouted, and the class burst into applause. Tonks bowed.

"For homework next Monday, please write a short essay on how to identify and reveal a metamorphagus– roughly a foot of parchment should do it, don't you think? That will be all; have a wonderful rest of your week."

As they left the classroom, Ron turned to Hermione with a grin. "So, this whole morning–"

"It wasn't me," she said with a shrug. "I got up early, let Tonks into the tower, and went to the library for a few hours before class. Ginny was in on it too, obviously. Speaking of," she said, glancing around with a frown, "Where _is_ Ginny?"

The boys looked about, surprised, and then Ron shrugged. "She must've gone ahead of us to transfiguration."

Harry smacked his head. "Transfiguration!"

"What?"

"I left my book in the dormitory! You two go on– I'll catch up–"

"We'll tell Professor Kemp you'll be late," Hermione reassured him.

"Thanks." He dashed off down the halls.

By the time he got up to the seventh floor he was so out of breath that he had to stop outside the portrait door, just panting for a few seconds until the Fat Lady prodded him for the password. _"Magnanimitas,"_ he gasped out, and stepped inside, resting for a moment. He was just about to run up to the dormitory when he noticed that the tower wasn't quite empty.

"Ginny?" he said in surprise. The redheaded girl flinched, her back still to him from where she sat on the couch; she'd been sitting perfectly still in an effort not to be seen. "Why aren't you down at transfiguration?" he demanded.

"I-I'm fine," a warbling voice returned, with a sniffle. "Go on, Harry; you'll be late for class…"

Harry frowned and walked forward; she certainly did not sound fine. "Gin? Are you okay?" The ginger looked up at him, face splotchy and running with tears, and Harry immediately sat down, setting a hand on her shoulder. "Ginny, what is it? What's wrong?"

"I-I just- just–" She hiccupped and covered her face with her hands. Harry rubbed circles on her back, unsure what to say. Eventually she managed to get it out through her tears: "I w-was thinking about– today, in class, with Tonks and– I-I thought, it was so f-funny, it was like looking at my own t-t-twin and– _and–"_

"Shh. It's okay."

"No it's not!" she cried angrily, causing him to jump. "It's not okay, Harry, and it's n-n-never going to be okay again! Fred is d- _dead!"_

Harry looked back at her, stunned and saddened. Ginny buried her head in her hands again. "I'm s-sorry," she moaned. "I know it's not your fault–"

"You can yell at me whenever you need to," the wizard said firmly. "I'm here for you, Ginny; I don't know what I can do, maybe I can't do anything, but I'm here."

She nodded tearfully into her hands, and Harry sighed, pulling her into his arms. Ginevra began to cry in earnest then, weeping into his shoulder. "I'm so sorry," he mumbled thickly into her hair. "I really am, Gin."

"I m-miss him. So much…"

"I know. I miss him too."

How long they sat there, Harry didn't know and didn't care. When at last Ginny's sobs had subsided to shuddering breaths, she drew back, rubbing at her eyes. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "B-being silly…"

Harry was forcefully reminded of Molly Weasley, and shook his head. "You're not being silly," he said firmly. "You love him, Gin. And you miss him. That's not silly at all."

She drew a trembling breath and nodded. "You– you really think there's… something else? After all this? You really saw…?"

"Yeah. Or I think I did, anyway."

Ginny shook her head. "I-I'm just so scared. How can we be a f-family after this? What's g-going to happen at Christmas, or next Easter, when we're all together again? Because we w-won't be, Harry, we won't be all there, there's just going to be this gaping hole where he should be, and I'm so scared that we're all just going to fall apart…"

"That's not going to happen." She let out a little sob, and he gripped her hand tightly. "No, Gin, listen to me. Look, you… you guys, you were the first family I ever had, the only family I remember. You all had so– so much love, that there was enough to spare for some random kid you didn't even know. And a family with that much love doesn't just fall apart." He set his hand on her shoulder, drawing her gaze upwards. "Your family is strong, Gin," he promised. "And there's no better proof of that than how much you all love and miss Fred, even now."

She sniffled and nodded, embracing him again. Harry hugged her tightly. After several long seconds they parted, and she sighed, wiping her eyes. "I-I guess we should get to class…"

"Don't be daft; of course we're not going to transfiguration now."

"But–"

"No buts. We're skiving." He offered her a hand, and she took it with a watery smile. "C'mon. Let's go get some lunch. I bet the house-elves will let us take it out to the lake."  
"That sounds nice," she agreed, lacing her fingers through his. As they walked out the portrait hole, Ginny looked over at him. "Hey, Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you." She squeezed his hand. "I'm really glad you're here."

The wizard smiled sadly and squeezed back. "I'm glad I can be."

* * *

"–That was _so smart,_ Lav. I didn't even know you knew Hindi!"

The werewolf smiled, shrugging. She and the Patils were heading down to the Great Hall for supper, and the twins had finally gotten the chance to gush over her cleverness in the Defense lesson. "I don't. But I've picked up on a little over the years…"

"Like what?" Padma inquired eagerly.

Lavender scrunched up her nose thoughtfully, and then said in a singsong voice, _"_ _Vah mujhe pyaar karata hai. Vah mujhe pyaar nahin karata hai. Vah mujhe pyaar karata hai…"*_

Parvati gasped and flushed as Padma burst out in giggles. "Talking about anyone in particular there, 'Vati?"

"Oh, shut up," the Gryffindor moaned, mortified. "I didn't know you could understand me!"

"You were pulling petals off conjured daisies, Parvati," Lavender pointed out with a smile. "It was a bit obvious."

"Ooh, speaking of which..." Padma nodded to the side, and the girls turned.

Dean Thomas had frozen at the end of the hall, bookbag slung over his shoulder. Parvati sucked in a little breath, blushing pinker still. The young man swallowed visibly and seemed to summon his courage before walking forwards. "Um, hi, Parvati."

"Hi," she said breathlessly.

"I, er, I was going to ask you– that is, I was wondering– oh, hang it all." He grimaced and said in a rush: "You wanna go to the ball with me?"

"O-oh," the Indian witch stammered, but she was smiling. "Oh, um, yes. Yes, that would be wonderful."

Dean broke out grinning. "Really? That's brilliant! Um, I mean–" he coughed, "–that's– really great, Parvati. So, um, I guess I'll see you later?"

"Right. Later, yes," she agreed. Dean grinned at her one last time and hurried off down the hall. Parvati watched him go, starstruck.

 _"_ _Mujhe lagata hai ki vah tumhen pyaar karata hai,"_ Padma whispered conspiratorially, and Parvati broke out of her trance, smacking her sister on the arm.

"Oh, shut up!" she said again, but she was smiling. The three linked arms and continued on their way. "Speaking of which," the Gryffindor said, nodding to Lavender, "Have you got a date yet?"

"Oh, no," Lavender said, blushing and ducking her head. "I-I don't think I'll go this year, honestly…"

"What?!" Both twins stopped and broke away, turning to face her. Lavender shrugged.

"I mean, who'd want to take me? Now that I'm, you know…"

"That's rubbish!" Padma insisted stoutly. "Just because you're a werewolf–" Lavender flinched. "Sorry. But just because, well, you're a little different–"

"A little different! Padma, I–" She glanced around and lowered her voice, though the hall was empty aside from a few first years some ways behind. "I'm not just 'a little different.' In a week I'm going to sprout fur, and a _tail._ That's… that's a lot for people to handle, it's a lot for _me_ to handle. What boy is going to want to deal with that?"

"Somebody will, Lav," Padma insisted. "You'll see…"

"If I were in his shoes," the werewolf said quietly, "I wouldn't."

The twins glanced at each other uncertainly. "Well… you should still go," Parvati said at last. "There's no shame in going stag, Lav…"

"I'll think about it, 'Vati," the blonde sighed, but she knew she wouldn't. "Can we just… talk about something else?"

The pair looked to one another and nodded. "Of course we can," Parvati agreed. "Like that horrendous transfiguration assignment!"

"Oh, I _know!_ How are we supposed to know the difference between ions and isotopes?"

"I still don't see how it _matters;_ who cares if there's a leftover electron or two?"

They rounded the corner to the much busier hallway that led to the Great Hall, now in much higher spirits. Lavender giggled at Padma's imitation of the aloof Professor Kemp, almost forgetting about the matter of the Yule Ball altogether. Still, in the back of her mind, there remained the question of whom, exactly, she would have wanted to go with… but it was bogus, she thought with a stab of envy, she'd ruined any chance she'd had when she kissed him out of the blue, probably disgusted him…

But any thoughts she had of a certain fair-haired wizard were immediately forgotten when the trio was suddenly approached by an entirely different member of Slytherin house. Padma and Parvati immediately stepped in front of her and drew their wands. "What do you want, Zabini?" Padma demanded viciously.

Blaise Zabini raised an eyebrow. "I wanted to apologize."

"Apologize?" Parvati inquired mistrustfully.

"Yes." He turned to Lavender and said coolly, "I have been informed by Professor McGonagall that my little joke last month was out of line."

"Apology accepted," the werewolf said icily. "Now get out of our way."

"I see you don't believe me. Let me prove it to you." Before they could stop him, he'd reached into his pocket and pulled out a brightly colored package. "A little _treat_ for dinner."

Lavender knew even before she accepted it that it was a trap; she could see the grins of the other Slytherin boys behind him. But her curiosity got the better of her, and she took the package, examining the label.

It bore an animated drawing on the front of a young crup dashing back and forth in a field of flowers, wagging its forked tail and jumping up and down when it caught sight of Lavender. Across the top in bright letters were the words, _Cruppie Cakes! The perfect treat for plucky pups everywhere!_

Lavender looked up, feeling strangely numb. She could hear the snickers of the other Slytherins, the worried mutters of the onlookers. Her eyes met Zabini's, and she saw the cruel satisfaction in his eyes.

 _"Woof,"_ he said softly, smirking.

And that was when Lavender Brown– ever composed, ever polite, ever perfectly mannered in every way–

That was when Lavender _snapped._

"YOU BASTARD!" she screamed, and there was a resonant timbre to her voice, like a wolf's bay, that made Zabini's eyes go wide in instinctive terror. "YOU- YOU THINK YOU'RE FUNNY- YOU'VE GOT NO IDEA- YOU ABSOLUTE _CREEP-"_ She tore open the package, grabbed a handful of the biscuits and threw them at him with all her might; Zabini ducked, trying to shelter himself from her wrath. "YOU THINK- YOU HAVE ANY RIGHT- I OUGHT TO-"

The boy's face became a snarl; he drew his wand. "How dare you, you little half-breed! _PETRIFI-"_

 _"PROTEGO!"_ she shrieked, brandishing her wand. _"EXPELLIMELLIUS!"_

A jet of flames rushed past; Blaise ducked it and shot a stunner, which Lavender expertly blocked and returned with a blinding hex. Students screamed and dove out of the way as flares of light ricocheted through the halls; the werewolf and the Slytherin seemed locked in a duel that came just short of life-and-death.

 _"STUPIF-"_

 _"PROTEGO!"_

 _"EXPELLIARMUS!"_

This time, Lavender was too slow; her wand flew out of her hand. Zabini's teeth were gritted. _"SECTUMSEM–!"_

 _"PROTEGO!"_

A barrier of incredible strength appeared between them. _"EXPELLIARMUS!"_ the same voice roared. _"TERGUM!"_

The hex blasted Zabini down the hall; he fell hard on his back, shouting and cursing as much in anger as pain, his wand caught in the waiting hand of her defender. The blond Slytherin turned to the girl, anger and concern filling his sharp features. "Are you alright?" Draco demanded. "Did he get you?"

"I-I don't think so," she stammered, chilled by the realization of what Blaise had been about to do. _Not that I haven't suffered worse…_

"WHAT IN MERLIN'S NAME IS GOING ON HERE?!"

Everyone jumped and turned; Professor McGonagall was hurrying down the hall as fast as she could without tripping over her robes, wand held at the ready. She gasped at the sight. "Mr. Zabini!"

Blaise Zabini was still swearing, gasping for breath as he sat up. "What is the meaning of this?" the headmistress demanded, aghast.

"It was him!" Blaise spat. "That foul blood-traitor-"

McGonagall turned and rounded on Ron Weasley, who Lavender belatedly realized was among the spectators. _"Ronald Bilius Weasely, what in the world were you thinking-"_

"Not _him,"_ Zabini scoffed, "Malfoy!"

McGonagall blinked, startled, and then turned to the other Slytherin. "Well?" she demanded frostily. "Do you have explanation for why your housemate appears to have just been thrown twenty feet down the hall?"

"He attacked me!" Blaise called over.

"That's not true," Harry Potter hastened to correct, stepping past his redhead friend. "Malfoy was just defending her-"

"Defending her? Defending whom?"

"Me!" Lavender exclaimed furiously. "Zabini- he tried to curse me-"

"Only because she attacked me first!"

"She threw biscuits in your face; that hardly counts as a vicious assault," Hermione Granger interjected scathingly.

"Threw bis-" It was clear that McGonagall was utterly confused. "Could someone _please_ tell me what happened from the _beginning?"_

Everyone started to speak at once; Minerva sighed and held up a hand. "Mr. Weasely," she said, pointing to Ron. "An account, if you please."

The redhead flushed but hurried to say, "They were just walking along, I swear it, and then Blaise came up and- well, he-" He glanced to Lavender uncomfortably, "-he gave Lavender a bag of biscuits."

"Biscuits?" the headmistress repeated again, frowning.

"Dog biscuits," Harry said quietly.

McGonagall's eyes widened perceptively as she noticed the bone-shaped treats scattered across the floor. Lavender dropped her eyes, cheeks coloring.

"-Right, well," Ron continued hastily, "Lavender started screaming and throwing them at him, and so Zabini tried to curse her-"

"That's a lie!" Blaise shouted viciously.

"Well, we'll see about that soon enough," McGonagall said sharply, and turned to the pictures lining the walls. "Who was it that started the fight?"

"The boy, Headmistress," admitted the nearest one, a portrait of a fat old monk.

"Yes, ma'am, it was," another added.

"It's true."

McGonagall pursed her lips, glaring very angrily at Zabini. "Continue, Mr. Weasely," she snapped, without looking over.

Ronald gulped, frightened even though he wasn't the one in trouble. "So- so they started dueling, and then he disarmed her and tried to use the _sectumsempra_ curse. Malfoy shielded it, and then hexed Zabini. And that's- that's what happened." He fell quiet.

 _"Sectumsempra?"_ McGonagall said lowly. "You're certain?"

"Well- he didn't get it out- but he sure tried."

"He's lying!" Blaise spat.

"He's not, Headmistress. We all heard it," the monk countered. All the other portraits agreed.

"Unbelievable," McGonagall said, mouth tight. "Absolutely _unbelievable._ " She turned to Blaise. "You are fortunate," she said, fury blazing in her eyes, "that you didn't finish that curse, Mr. Zabini, or you would likewise not be finishing the year at Hogwarts." Zabini flushed, more with anger than with shame. "Moreover, your harassment of Miss Brown was inexcusable. I am absolutely _disgusted;_ two hundred points from Slytherin!"

"Two _hundred?_ " Draco gasped. "But professor-!"

"And another fifty for you, Mr. Malfoy! Protecting a fellow student is one thing; revenge-hexing is quite another! Miss Brown, I'm taking fifty points for you as well; we do _not_ respond to insults, no matter how vile they may be, with violence. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Headmistress," Lavender mumbled, shame-faced.

"Good. You'll serve detention later this week with Professor Lupin. As to you, Mr. Zabini, _you'll_ be spending the next three weeks helping Mr. Filch clean the dungeons in the evenings, Monday to Friday."

"Three weeks!" Zabini exclaimed.

"And be glad I don't make it a month!" McGonagall barked. "Go now, all of you! And this had better not happen again!"

Slowly the corridor began to empty out into the Great Hall. Lavender turned to see Parvati and Padma gaping at her, stunned. Slowly, she looked over to her rescuer. Draco looked back awkwardly, wand still in hand. "Um– thank you," she said softly.

He gave a strange sort of jerking nod, and then Lavender grabbed the twins's hands and dragged them into the Great Hall. "Not a word!" she hissed at them fiercely as she sat down. But neither missed the pink blush that was crossing her scarred face, and shared a glance of surprise.

 _"Aapako nahin lagata ki yah–"_

 _"Bilkul nahin–"_

"Shush!"

* * *

"I'm sorry, Ron, but I _really_ don't know anything."

"C'mon, Lavender's _your_ roommate! She must've said something!"

"I haven't heard a word. And honestly, why do you even care?" Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You're not still interested in her, are you?"

"What? No, of course not!" Ron protested. "I'm just curious as to what Malfoy's up to!"

"Merlin, Ron, you're as bad as Harry some days…"

"Tell me you're not curious." Ron stopped in the hallway and crossed his arms, turning to look at her. "Go on!"

The Head Girl shot him an irritated look, and then sighed. "Fine, so I'm curious! But it's still none of our business." They began walking again, crossing from one abandoned corridor to the next. "Maybe he's turned over a new leaf?"

"A new leaf. Right." Ron snorted and rolled his eyes. "I've said it before and I'll say it again: poisonous toadstools don't change their spots, at least not in my experience."

"The last time you said that it was about Professor Snape," she pointed out, before adding, "Besides, I thought you two had established a truce?"

"A ceasefire and peace are not the same thing," the Head Boy said darkly. "Look, 'Mione, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to see some _significant_ changes in that slimy git before I'd trust him with so much as a broken quill." She sighed, and he rolled his eyes. "Now who's the interested one?"

"Ron…"

"Maybe for all I know, you fancy Malfoy," he teased. "Maybe you've got a thing for blonds–"

 _"Really,_ Ron–"

"Or little ferret-faced blighters rich off their dad's mone– _mmf!"_ He was cut off when Hermione took things into her own hands, standing up on tiptoe and kissing him full on the mouth. He grinned when she pulled away, and she prodded him fiercely in the chest.

"I swear, Ronald Weasley, if you start getting jealous over _Draco Malfoy,_ I'll have Harry drop you back in the woods for a month!"

"Oh, _no_ worries about that, love…" He leaned down to kiss her again, and then paused. Hermione frowned curiously until he sighed and pulled away, drawing his wand. "Okay, you little buggers, get out here!"

There came the sound of high-pitched giggles, and two Ravenclaw first-years peeked out from around a corner, twin sisters by the looks of them. Ron raised an eyebrow. "Think spying on folks is funny, do you? Ten points from Ravenclaw."

"Aww…"

"Whine about it and I'll make it fifteen. 'Mione?"

"I'll make sure they get back to bed," she assured him. "You keep patrolling; we'll meet up by the library."

"Right."

Hermione smiled and then, much to his surprise, pecked him on the cheek. The girls giggled again, and he gave his best impression of Mad-Eye Moody. "Amscray!"

The Ravenclaws gasped and ran off down the hall, snickering to themselves. Hermione laughed and hurried after them, leaving Ron to rub the back of his now very red neck and grin to himself contentedly once they were out of view.

Hermione managed to catch up with the girls at the end of the corridor, where they'd stopped to wait for her. "Now," she said with a smile, taking both of their hands in hers; the girls beamed up at her, clearly delighted that it had been the famous Head Girl who had found them and not Filch. "What are you two doing out of bed after curfew?"

"We were going to the library, Miss."

"Oh? And is there any reason it couldn't wait until morning?"

The second little Ravenclaw blushed. "We… we wanted to go into the restricted section, Miss."

Hermione stopped, surprised; both girls stopped with her. "The restricted section?" she repeated. "Why on earth would you want to go there?" She decided that neglecting to mention her friends' own little escapades in that part of the library…

"We were curious," the first replied. "We read, in the newspaper–"

"With moving pictures!"

"–that Harry Potter was once a horcrux! Well, our parents aren't witches, Miss–"

"–so we didn't know what that meant–"

"–and when we asked, Professor Kemp went white–"

"Like a ghost!"

"–and wouldn't tell us a thing! So we figured it must be something terribly secret, and we realized if any book would have something on it, it would be one in the restricted section! Only we couldn't get in," she said with a pout, "the door was locked."

"Hmm…" Hermione bit her lip, wondering how to handle the situation, and then knelt down so she was only a little shorter than they were. "Girls, I want you to listen to me," she said seriously. "Curiosity– wanting to understand things– is not, by any means, a bad thing. But _idle_ curiosity can be very dangerous." The girls dropped their eyes. She hesitated, and then added, "A horcrux is a terrible piece of dark magic, created only by the act of murder." The girls looked up at her, horrified. "Harry, my friend, was made into one when Voldemort killed his parents. He suffered very badly for it."

"W-we're sorry, Miss," the first twin whispered. "We didn't know…"

"It's alright; I'm not angry with you. But wanting to know things that aren't your business, well, people can get very hurt from it." Both girls had fallen quite silent, and she smiled, squeezing their hands. "Don't be sad; it's all forgiven. But don't do this again, alright?"

The twins swore fervently that they wouldn't, and the head girl stood up again, leading them back to the Ravenclaw dormitory and distracting them with more cheerful conversation. When at last they'd disappeared into the tower, she was left to wander her way down towards the library.

 _The dangers of idle curiosity…_ a lesson, she mused to herself, it had taken her a very long time to learn. She supposed it had been after her fifth year that she'd finally realized the harm it could cause; she could only wonder how the confrontation in the Shrieking Shack would have gone if she hadn't blurted out Professor Lupin's personal information at such a crucial moment. Perhaps Pettigrew would have been caught and detained in time; perhaps they would have made it back to the castle before moonrise; perhaps Sirius would never have died and Harry would have known his godfather; perhaps, perhaps…

She sighed and shook her head to herself; many people had played an unwitting part in the death of Sirius Black– Harry, Lupin, and Professor Dumbledore just as much as her. Remus had told her as much when she'd admitted how guilty she felt, on their way to visit Tonks in the hospital. _"We take responsibility for what we did, and nothing more,"_ he'd told her. _"We all made foolish decisions, yes, but Bellatrix Lestrange fired that curse, no one else. Don't put any more blame on yourself than you deserve."_

She had agreed, and decided then and there not to look any further into anyone's personal information unless not doing so could be dangerous. Her discovery of Elphinstone Urquart's secret, for example, had been entirely coincidential. _Still,_ she thought, allowing herself a small spark of pride, _I was right, after all. I figured it out again…_ Her mind flashed back to the conversation she'd had a week earlier:

* * *

 _…Professor McGonagall was frowning through her spectacles at a long and official-looking letter when the student arrived; she looked up as Hermione closed the door and adjusted her glasses, surprised. "Miss Granger. You look quite distressed; is something the matter?"_

 _"We need to talk," Hermione said shortly, though her voice spoke more of nervousness than of anger. This wasn't the sort of allegation to make lightly, she knew, and if she was wrong…_

 _"Oh? About what?"_

 _The student drew a deep breath and pulled the study out of her bag, setting it down on the desk facing the professor. She watched as McGonagall scanned the first several sentences. When the look of realization dawned upon the old widow's face, Hermione knew she'd been right._

 _"We need to talk," she repeated, drawing the headmistress's eyes, "about Elphinstone Urquart."_

 _McGonagall stared her down for several seconds, expression inscrutable. Then, with a sigh, she stood and went to the fireplace and took the kettle off the spit, pouring the steaming water into the waiting tea set. Hermione watched in silence as she prepared two cups of tea, and then returned, gesturing to the chair opposite hers._

 _"Have a seat, Miss Granger. I have the feeling this is going to take a while."_

Hermione did so nervously; it was impossible to discern whether the old headmistress was angry with her or not. As she sat down in the straight-backed chair opposite the headmistress's own, McGonagall took a long sip of her tea, before settling the cup down on the saucer and fixing the younger witch with an inscrutable green stare. Hermione swallowed; surely Professor McGonagall wouldn't revoke her Head Girlship, would she? Or worse, what if the headmistress obliviated her? Oh, she didn't really expect McGonagall to do such a thing– but then again, perhaps in her position Hermione herself would be tempted, to protect Ron's reputation if nothing else. Oh, she should have just kept her revelation to herself, _why_ had she ever gone sticking her nose in–

"Have a biscuit, Miss Granger."

The younger witch jumped slightly. "Pardon?"

"A biscuit. They're fresh; I made them myself this morning."

Somehow the vision of the straight-laced Professor McGonagall baking biscuits like an old biddy amused her enough that Hermione was able to relax, accepting the newt-shaped ginger biscuit and dipping it into her tea. "So," the headmistress said calmly, as the girl took a bite of the softened cookie. "How did you find out?"

"A lot of different things," Hermione admitted. "I only just put them together… you never had children, did you? And so much of the work he did for the Order was kept secret… And now this study. I recognized your style from your other work," she said, almost apologetically. "And then… the locket."

"The locket?"

"It's in a picture in the book you gave me– dated 1975. It's clear you're in love," the younger witch said softly. "But… it's seven years before your marriage. Why would anyone wait that long to get married?"

McGonagall smiled slightly, wistfully. "In fact, Miss Granger, you're not quite correct on that account."

"Oh?"

"That picture– the one in the pub, yes?" Hermione nodded. "That was taken a week after we were married– in the eyes of God, that is, not the Ministry. Elphi was afraid that Greyback would get his hands on the registry and come after me in an attempt to blackmail him, so we didn't file the marriage until after the war. But we were husband and wife long before then."

"Did anyone else know?"

"Well, the Order, of course. Pomona and Poppy, as well, and naturally my family; my father married us. The Potters were there, and the Lupins… But other than that, no. It was a very small affair."

Hermione nodded, and then bit her lip. The headmistress raised an eyebrow. "Go on; you may ask."

"…How did you… I mean, when did you first realize he was a…"

Minerva nodded, eyes drifting away as if remembering something. "Well, it was inevitable I would find out someday. We were immediately fast friends, you know– bonded over Quidditch." Hermione chuckled. "We became very close, but I could tell he was hiding something from me. I never suspected lycanthropy, though; nobody ever did. The idea that a werewolf could be working in the Ministry, well, it was practically laughable!"

"Yes… that's another thing I don't understand. I thought– I mean, the laws are clear–"

"On hiring werewolves," McGonagall agreed, "not on keeping one employed after the fact. Elphi told Charlus the day after it happened– that was before I was working, Potter was Chief Superintendent then– and Charlus let him keep his job, never told a soul. He was a terribly loyal friend."

"But he must have missed work for it," Hermione insisted. "Someone must have noticed–!"

But McGonagall shook her head. "Elphi was scrupulous about secrecy; he'd force himself through the day, trying to keep up appearances, then go home that night to his own private hell. Then, the next day, he'd come back exhausted and pale, all of his wounds disguised with spells. He wore this– _horrible_ ring, which kept the glamours up day in and day out. It drained a good deal of his magic, which of course only made the full moons worse; there were times it nearly killed him." She fell quiet as if at a painful memory, and then resumed:

"He always looked dreadfully sick, though, the day of. That was how I first found out, actually; I'd nagged him all morning until he went home, thinking he'd caught the flu. Around nightfall I realized he'd left his briefcase at the office and decided to pop by to give it to him, only to encounter a full-grown werewolf chained up in the bedroom… as you can imagine, it was quite the shock."

Hermione nodded sympathetically.

"He thought for certain I would reveal him, or at least abandon him. Of course, I was furious that he'd kept it from me, but…" A sad smile touched the old widow's lips. "But he was my dearest friend. All I wanted to do was help him."

"That was how you realized," Hermione surmised. "That animagi were safe with werewolves, I mean."

"Elphi opposed it at first, but I insisted– well." She grimaced in a matter that Hermione, to her shock, could only describe as _sheepish._ "More like did it without his permission. But in the end, my suspicions were correct: animagi were safe from the bite, and apparently didn't appeal to the lycan appetite." Hermione laughed a bit, and McGonagall actually smiled warmly at her, green eyes glinting. "He was a wonderful man. I think you would have liked him very much."

"I'm sure I would have," the Head Girl agreed. "And his career! The cases he heard; all the arrests he made… the Ministry must have been furious when he retired!"

But at this, McGonagall's face grew dark. "Furious… yes, she was furious indeed, though not because he left…"

"She?" Hermione said, surprised.

Minerva tilted her head. "I would have thought you'd have worked that out by now." At the student's quizzical look, she sighed. "Miss Granger, in 1983 Minister Bagnold's senior undersecretary, Marcus Chadwick, was murdered by a few of the remaining death eaters. Elphi was in line for the position but refused, feeling he would serve Britain better by continuing his leadership of the DMLE. Unfortunately, the second ranking ministry member was… a particularly unsavory character, the chief secretary for the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures."

Hermione's eyes had gone as wide as saucers. "You don't mean…"

"When Dolores realized what Elphi was, she blackmailed him into resigning from his job– and me, into resigning my seat from the Wizengamot. A man who had served her Ministry for thirty-eight years, who had given his blood and tears for the safety of the British people… and she treated him like an _animal."_ The headmistress's face had gone stony with fury. "I consider hatred a very unchristian attitude, Miss Granger, but _nobody_ has ever tested me further on that principle than Dolores Jane Umbridge."

Hermione sat quietly for several moments, a fierce anger burning in her chest. She had long known that Umbridge was a horrid, bigoted toad, but this new proof had only made her more furious. That such a good man could be treated in such a horrible way, all for a medical condition he had never wanted… somebody ought to do something. Somebody ought to _change_ things.

"…Professor," she said hesitantly, glancing up, "Do you think… I mean, I've just taken an internship with the Creatures Department… perhaps I should resign? I mean, I don't want to support…"

But McGonagall shook her head. "If nobody ever has the courage to fight, Miss Granger, nothing will ever change. Do what you're able where you are; that's the most we can ever do." Her face softened. "But please, be kind to those you meet there, even if they're bitter towards you… those poor souls have more than enough to deal with."

Hermione nodded, a bit uncertainly. McGonagall sighed, finished her tea, and stood. "I trust, Miss Granger, that you will keep this information to yourself?"

"Of course," she agreed swiftly, rising to her feet. "I wont' tell a soul, not without your permission."

The headmistress nodded, looking relieved. "Thank you. Elphi's memory… everything he did, it could all be tarnished, if this were ever known. He begged me never to let that happen."

"I understand." She paused. "Professor, I– I do have one more question."

"Hm?"

"Well… werewolves are immune to most poisons, including that of the Venomous Tentacula… Professor, how- how did your husband really die?"

McGonagall closed her eyes at the question, and Hermione thought for a moment that she'd gone too far. But when the headmistress opened them again, her expression was only sorrowful.

"Riddle began using werewolves to do his dirty work near the end of the first war. Albus realized that, with the help of the Wolfsbane potion, one of our own would be able to join the pack during the full moon and protect any potential victims. Remus was barely more than a boy then, so Elphi volunteered; because of the expense and complexity of the potion, we presumed none of Greyback's pack would be able to obtain it, thus rendering them incapable of recognizing a stranger in their midst. We believed it would be safe. Unfortunately…" She drew a sharp breath, and then continued with some difficulty, "Unfortunately, Greyback must have recognized Elphi during one of the raids. On the full of April in '85, he came for him. Elphi defended the village here with his life, fought Greyback off… but his injuries were too severe. We didn't find him until dawn; he died minutes afterwards."

"I'm so sorry," Hermione whispered. "I didn't realize…"

"You couldn't have known." She smiled painfully. "Thank you, Miss Granger."

"Me? For what?"

"For giving an old widow a chance to speak honestly. For carrying on his memory. It's heartening to know that someday, when I'm with him, someone here will still remember the truth."

And in that moment, the Head Girl had understood. To have such courage, such nobility go unremembered… it would be nothing short of a tragedy. Humbled at the trust the headmistress had shown her, Hermione had simply ducked her head and replied with all sincerity:

 _"The honor is all mine, Professor."_

* * *

The sound of the deep, throbbing hums of the school clock-tower chiming midnight stirred Draco from his stupor; he lifted his head and grimaced at the crick in his neck. The library was quiet and dark; he'd hidden himself under a desk with a disillusionment charm while Madame Pince searched the library for any loiterers, and then had waited until she was gone to seat himself in one of the big armchairs. His plan was a simple one: wait until the others were sure to be asleep, and then sneak into the dorm room. Tomorrow he'd leave before dawn and avoid the inevitable confrontation with Blaise altogether. How long he could possibly keep up the pattern Draco wasn't sure, but all he really cared about was surviving the night.

He shouldered his bag and crept out into the empty halls. Having lived in the old castle for nearly seven years now, he had learned enough of the habits of the resident ghosts, paintings, prefects, and Filch to know that the midnight route from the library to the dungeons was fairly open. At one point he had to slink behind a corner to avoid Mrs. Norris, who thankfully hadn't smelled him, before he continued on his way down the curved staircases to the false dungeon wall which guarded the Slytherin common room. _"Corallus caninus,"_ he whispered; the false wall slid aside, and he stepped into the common room, glancing around with a sigh of relief.

He loved the Slytherin common room, always had– well, except for the snake skulls, but those were removable. The velvety green tapestries, and the way the moonlight rippled in silver patterns on the floor through the lakewater, on a cold clear evening like tonight… it had always inspired some sort of half-fantasy in his mind of sitting in an enchanted forest. The room was dark and mostly empty, save for the faint glow given off by the Baron, who glanced up at him as he entered. "Out late again, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Er– yes, sir."

"Mmm." The Baron looked back down at the chessboard, ghostly brows furrowed. "Could you perchance move my white bishop to D5?"

"Certainly, sir." Draco couldn't help but feel a bit honored. Every Slytherin knew better than to touch a single piece of the set without permission, as Baron Waldo's chess games against himself were practically an art form; sometimes the ghost would go weeks without moving a single piece. He snuck a glance at the layout of the board and found it appropriately complex.

"Mr. Malfoy," the Baron added as he turned to go; Draco glanced back in surprise. "I do not believe it would be to your benefit to return to your dormitory tonight. Your classmate, Mr. Zabini, did not seem to be in an especially favorable mood towards you when he entered earlier this evening."

"Sir, while I appreciate the warning, I don't have much of a choice," the student pointed out. "I have to sleep."

"Ah, yes. Sleep… I had forgotten, you live ones need it." The baron's eyes seemed nearly wistful for a moment, but it must have been a trick of the firelight, for in the next moment he stood. "I don't suppose you encountered the Lady Helena in the course of your return? Or perhaps Father Athalbert?"

"No, sorry."

"Hmm…" Without another word, the ghost shifted his ropes of chains and walked straight through the nearest wall. Draco sighed and turned for the staircase.

There was no sound when he pressed his ear to the door, so he took a deep breath and pushed it open a crack. He winced at the sharp squeak as the heavy oak door moved on its hinges, and then froze. A beam of light slipped through the crack in the doorway. Somebody was still up.

Draco steeled his will and sternly ordered himself not to be a coward; he had faced far, far worse than Blaise Zabini in the course of the last year alone. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Not only was one of the other boys still awake; all four were, in various states of inactivity. Gladwyn and Duggard appeared to have just paused halfway through some homework, glancing up from the books on their bed. Greg was sitting uncomfortably at the foot of his bed, looking down at his hands. And Blaise… Draco swallowed and looked over. Blaise had just set down a novel on his bedside table and was standing up.

"I'm surprised you returned at all," the half-Italian said coolly. "I would have thought you smarter than that."

Draco ignored him and turned to his bed, intent on dressing in silence. If Blaise wanted to row, well, he'd have to force it at wand-point; the Malfoy had developed an incredible capacity to ignore unpleasantness, and, healthy or not, he was going to put it to use right now. What he saw when he looked up, however, stopped him in his tracks.

His trunk was packed. Completely packed, as if ready to be loaded onto the Hogwarts Express. Draco's eyes swiveled to the bathroom; even from a distance he could see that his little shelf near the sinks was empty. The few little knick-knacks he'd left to sit out on the windowsill next to his bed were gone as well, presumably with the rest of his belongings, and his broomcase sat neatly tucked in beside his trunk. The Malfoy forced himself to breathe in deeply through his nose, and then turned back to Blaise. "What the hell is going on?" he asked, the epitome of calm and collected. His father would have been proud.

The other boy's face was hard as stone. "We don't accept blood traitors in this house. You've betrayed the Slytherin ideals. It's time for you to go

The blond couldn't help it; he laughed. "You always were a bloody drama queen, Blaise." He snorted again and headed for his bed, shrugging off his satchel and rolling his shoulders. "Sleep well, fellas."

 _Whoosh!_

He heard the hex a moment before he felt it, but he still jumped and swore when the stinging sensation zapped into his shoulder. He whirled around, drawing his wand, only to see that the other four – to his shock, Greg included – had drawn theirs. Draco let out an irritated growl. "Look, Blaise, it's been a bloody long day," he said through his teeth. "I really don't feel like handing all your arses to you on a silver platter, but I didn't get this tattoo by doing fucking needlepoint for nine months. So how's about we all pretend like nothing's happened and just _go to bed,_ alright?"

But Zabini didn't lower his wand. "The time for pretending is over, Malfoy," he sneered. "Mud-licking scum like you don't belong here. You chose your side; go see if they'll help you. But don't come crying to us when the half-breeds and mudbloods throw you out in the cold."

"You can't possibly expect that I'll just up and leave." Blaise didn't move, and Draco said coolly, "I'll tell Slughorn. He's a 'mud-licker' too; he won't stand for it."

"Do that," Blaise countered icily, "And your father will be getting another letter."

Draco opened his mouth to retort, and then realized that he had no reply: Blaise did in fact hold the power. He could make Draco kiss his boots if he so wished, and the Malfoy knew that he would do it without a word of complaint, if it meant keeping mother and father in the dark. "You wouldn't," he tried. One last desperate bluff…

"I would."

He wasn't lying. Draco could hear it in his voice. "…Where will I sleep?" he asked, and hated that it came out as a plea.

"Not our problem." The other boy's eyes were cold. "Just get out. And don't come back."

He kicked Draco's broomcase forward, and the blond dropped to his knees to grab it, stunned. He looked up to find only cold and unpitying faces. "...Greg?" he said uncertainly.

Goyle didn't meet his eyes. "...Go on, Malfoy," he mumbled. That was when Draco knew he'd lost.

Slowly, determined to maintain the last of his dignity, the blond gathered together his trunk, broomcase and other belongings and dragged them towards the exit. At the door to the stairs he looked back. Blaise watched him unblinkingly.

He hauled the trunk and broomcase down the stairs into the common room and gave one last despairing look around. Steeling his will, he turned and dragged his trunk to the entrance, passing through the false wall. When he stopped and looked behind, all that could be seen were dull gray bricks.

Up one flight of stairs, and then another, he dragged his belongings away from the dungeons, not really sure where he was headed. It was only upon reaching the third floor that he realized he'd been unconsciously moving towards the Defense classroom. Yes, he thought, Professor Lupin would help him; at the very least he might be able to stay in his office for a night…

But when he reached the Defense classroom he found the door locked, belatedly realizing that it was ten at night; the Professor was probably in the teachers' quarters somewhere with his own family. Draco sat down heavily on the trunk; he didn't know where the teachers' quarters were, let alone how to get to them, and he doubted he could trust any of the other professors anyway. Oh, the Headmistress would probably help him, but she'd only insist on putting him back in his dormitory, which would cost him Zabini's silence. He considered going to the Three Broomsticks and renting a room for the rest of term, but dismissed the idea when he realized that, having no money of his own, his parents would doubtless become suspicious at his constant requests for more cash, and besides, it was an awful long way to haul a trunk. He didn't know how to get into the other dormitories and doubted that they would let him stay even if he did. He was, simply put, out of luck.

 _Fuck you, Blaise,_ he seethed interiorly, though some part of him felt that he had only himself to blame. He'd brought this on himself, hadn't he? He'd begun his decision back in May, when he'd dropped his wand and told the professor he wouldn't fight anymore; he ought to have expected back then to reach this point someday. Nobody trusted him, nobody gave a damn, neither blood purists nor blood traitors. _And all this, for trying to be one of the "good guys."_ What the hell was the matter with him, Draco wondered? Why the hell was he even fight this hard for something he wasn't even certain of? Because he _wasn't_ certain: he was taking all these new beliefs on mere authority and wild hope, and look what it had cost him. He wasn't a Slytherin anymore, and he sure as hell wasn't welcome anywhere else.

A swell of fury overtook him; with white hands trembling in rage he tore the tie from his neck and ripped the Slytherin patch off his robes. He'd never been able to do wandless magic before, but that was no matter now; for a moment his wrath fused itself into will, and his hand burst into flames, lighting the green-and-silver tatters ablaze. He dropped them to the ground with a savage joy; let them burn! He wasn't a true Slytherin, eh? Fine, then! To hell with them all!

Watching the symbols of his house burn to charred scraps of cloth, the anger began to leech out of him, leaving only hollowness in its stead. The weight of his predicament settled heavily on his shoulders then, as he realized that it wasn't just a dormitory he'd lost: he had no friends, no house, even, in a certain sense, no family, for his parents were far away and would be ashamed of him if they knew the truth. He had never felt so alone in his life.

Frustrated, cold, and condemned to sleeping on the floor for the foreseeable future, Draco Malfoy finally did something he had not done since the Dark Lord's downfall: he buried his face in his hands and began to cry. He didn't care if it was pathetic. Who was there to see him, anyway? Nobody gave a damn. He could stay here blubbing for hours and nobody would ever–

"Malfoy?"

 _Oh bloody hell, no._

Despite every bone in his body telling him not to, Draco forced himself to look up, and groaned upon meeting the gaze of one very uncomfortable Ronald Weasley. "Malfoy?" the Head Boy repeated awkwardly. "You, um, you okay?"

"Piss off, Weasley," Draco hissed, rubbing at his eyes and intending to storm off angrily, before realizing that he couldn't very well leave his trunk behind in the hall, resulting in him standing in an awkward position halfway between running away and staying where he was.

"I, er, can't do that, I'm afraid," Weasley replied, looking every bit as discomfited as Draco felt. "I'm supposed to investigate anything suspicious going on in the hallways, and…" He cleared his throat, gesturing to the trunk. "Well, um, this is sort of suspicious."

"What it is, is _none of your business,"_ Draco snapped, grabbing the handle of his trunk and finding it just as heavy as it had been when he'd set it down. He made a noise of irritation. "Just leave me be, Weasley; I promise I won't be here by morning."

"Malfoy, what the hell is going on?" the Head Boy said bluntly.

Draco stared at him for a long second, debating whether to tell the truth or reply with some scathing retort, before he decided that honesty couldn't possibly make the situation any worse than it already was. "I got kicked out of my dormitory," he said flatly. "Happy?"

"What– not by Slughorn?"

"No, you idiot, of course not. By Blaise."

"Bla– oh, you mean Zabini." He frowned. "Well, he's just a student, isn't he? Just go and tell him to shove off, or get Professor Slughorn to put him in place."

"I do that," Draco muttered as he sat back down, his thunder gone out of him, "And my father gets a nice little note about the day's events."

"Oh," the Head Boy realized. "You mean, about you defending Lavender." Draco nodded tiredly. "So… where will you go?"

"I don't know." He ticked the non-options off on his fingers: "I can't go back because of Blaise; I can't go to the Three Broomsticks because I don't have the cash on me to pay for more than a few nights; I can't go to another dormitory because it's not allowed; and I can't go to the teachers because they'd just punish Blaise, which would put me in the same position as before." He threw up his hands and proclaimed sarcastically, "I am officially and royally fucked."

Much to his surprise, Weasley began to laugh. Draco blinked, and then crossed his arms. "Funny, is that?"

"Well– yeah. I've never heard you use that word before." The redhead snickered.

"Well if you're done taking the mick, you can piss off– or I can curse you. Not much use in house points if I'm not really part of my house, is there?"

"Hey, hey, it's a joke. Lighten up." Draco glared at him, and Ronald rolled his eyes. "What about the Room of Requirement?"

"The what?"

"You know, where the diadem was hidden."

Draco frowned. "You mean the Room of Hidden Things?"

"Sure. You didn't think it was just for hiding things, did you?" When the look on Draco's face showed that that was _exactly_ what he'd thought, Weasley smirked a little. "Look, just trust me on this; go ask it for a place to kip and see what the Room comes up with. You won't regret it."

The Slytherin eyed him. "How do I know you're not trying to trick me?"

Ronald snorted and stood. "We're not all sneaky little gits like you, Malfoy. _Perfusorius."_ He tapped the Slytherin's trunk with his wand and began to walk away.

"Hey!" Draco demanded, leaping to his feet. "What did you do to my trunk?!"

The Weasley just laughed and vanished around the corner. Furious, Draco opened the top and found that everything was in its regular place; growling, he shut it and tried to lift it, only to find that it had suddenly become light as a feather. He reddened as he realized that he'd completely forgotten how to cast a featherlight charm himself. For a moment he hesitated, wondering whether he could really trust Weaselby's advice, but in the end reasoned that he had nothing to lose by trying.

Up the staircases he went, until he reached the seventh floor. For a moment old memories flooded his mind, sickening him; this was where he had plotted the death of the man who had tried to show him mercy. This was the place Vince had died. Maybe he should turn back… but no, he needed to sleep. He rubbed his eyes and sighed; would the room even work for him now? He wouldn't blame it for turning him away…

Setting his trunk down, he stepped back, closed his eyes, and paced across the floor, one, two, three times. _I need a place to stay for the night… I need a place to stay… please, give me a place to stay…_

He opened his eyes, hoping against hope…

Two old oak doors stood before him, beautifully carved. Draco let out a low sigh which may or may not have contained a shudder of relief. Swallowing hard, he pulled the door open, and stopped.

The room which lay beyond the door appeared to be some sort of wonderful combination of the Slytherin common room and the study of Malfoy Manor; deep emerald tapestries and oak bookshelves covered the walls, and a fire was blazing merrily in the hearth of an oak fireplace on the wall opposite the doorway. Great cathedral-style windows allowed in the silvery moonlight, which cast shimmering shards of white light over the floor and walls. Best of all was the great soft bed placed along the right wall, with a fluffy emerald duvet and cream linen sheets.

A cold draft from the corridor at his back alerted Draco that he was still standing frozen in the doorway, and he quickly pulled his trunk and broomcase over the threshold and shut the door behind him. Immediately the room fell quiet, aside from the crackling of the fire, and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Just ten minutes ago he'd resigned himself to curling up in a hallway alcove and trying not to freeze against the hard stone; now the castle itself had provided him with a place that felt like… well, like home. Why, Draco wondered? He'd abused this room's powers to bring harm to the castle and its inhabitants. He'd played a part, and not a very indirect one, in the full-scale invasion of the fortress. He knew the castle wasn't sentient, of course, but it _was_ magical; shouldn't it be rejecting him, like a– what was the word? A virus? Yes, a virus, for the body to destroy. Yet here he was.

Still only half-daring to believe it, he looked around for an explanation. His eyes landed on the engraving on the mantle, the flickering firelight gleaming softly off the wood. They were letters, he realized, moving closer. As he ran his fingers along the wood, he squinted and at last managed to make out the words:

" _Said Hufflepuff, 'I'll teach the lot, and treat them just the same.'"_

A soft breath escaped him as he understood. So this – the Room of Hidden Things, this "Room of Requirement" – this was the fabled _Hufflepuff's Hold,_ one of the four legendary rooms created by the Founders. All this time, and he had never known…

And it had accepted him. Him, with the tattoo burnt into his arm symbolizing his loyalty to everything Helga Hufflepuff had ever stood against; him, who had always considered himself a notch above the rest, deserving of more, worthy of respect for no better reason than the blood in his veins and the gold in his vault; him, who had always mocked the unassuming yellow-clad "folk" for their modesty and good cheer, in a way that he only now realized was far more derisive than his animosity for the Gryffindors and grudging jealousy of the Ravenclaws. _"I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"_

Yet here he was. Provided for, cared for. _Said Hufflepuff, "I'll teach the lot, and treat them just the same."_

As Draco Malfoy settled into the bed and watched the fire burn brightly in the hearth, he made himself a resolution: he was still, he realized, a Slytherin through and through; he was ambitious and clever, good at identifying what he wanted and even better at getting it. There was no shame in that, he decided, provided that what one wanted was a good thing.

But he would never, he vowed as his eyes drifted shut, _never_ mock the House of Hufflepuff again.

* * *

 ***"He loves me; he loves me not; he loves me..." Apologies again for the notoriously fallible Google Translate!**

 **A/N: I know, I know, it's been forever! Once again I apologize; the last two months has been jam-packed. Buuuut I've finally finished my big final paper (twenty-four pages, if you can believe it!) and am free until summer classes start in two weeks. So, an update for you.**

 **I have also heard your requests for more Remadora; although I wasn't able to do so in this chapter, the next (which will be a full moon chapter) should hopefully include a little more romance.**

 **Please review! Pax et bonum! –FFcrazy15**


	25. Chapter 25: Cold Moon

Disclaimer: I neither own the intellectual property of the Harry Potter universe, nor do profit from this work produced here.

Warnings: cursing, kissing, two transformation scenes, a man getting shot (rather graphic; end of the first part).

* * *

 _ **December 3rd – MI0 LE Headquarters, Scotland Yard**_

"Bullard."

"Present.

"Duncan."

"Present.

"Dursley."

"Present."

"Easton."

"Present…"

Near the back of the room, a blond officer fidgeted with his jacket cuffs and glanced to the clock on the wall. 3:30 PM. His forehead furrowed for a moment as he worked out the math; that was… damn, less than an hour.

"Elmer…"

 _Speed it up, chief; we've got sundown at four-thirty!_ Dudley glanced to the clock and gritted his teeth. Trust him to get stuck with the full-moon shift. Again.

He really bloody hated being the new guy.

"Dud. Eh, Dud." He glanced over; Gill's eyes were wide, his twitchy pale fingers pulling at a spare thread of his jacket. "How long til, uh…"

"An hour. Less." Dudley knew his tone was shorter than it should have been, but he didn't have much patience tonight. He was every bit as terrified as his partner, but he wasn't shaking in his blues, now was he?

 _If mum and dad knew where I was tonight…_

"Alright, listen up!" Dudley started to attention as the chief snapped his roster closed. "You all know what night it is. Sun goes down at 4:23 exactly, so I want you all to have done a full check of your sector and be in position by 4:15! Lycanthrope activity is priority tonight. You see a convenience store get robbed? You leave it for the boys upstairs. Use your invisibility boosters if you have to." Every MI0 LE car was equipped with standard invisibility boosters to help the officers go undercover, especially when not wanting to be harassed by muggles mistaking them for ordinary police. It was an easy mistake; MI0 LE officers in London wore the same uniform as the standard Metropolitan Police, and in fact Headquarters was located just below Scotland Yard.

"In addition, we've gotten a tip-off from Chief Lupin!" Everyone perked up at that; Chief Auror Superintendent Lupin was a legend among the ranks of the MI0. War hero, metamorphagus, youngest Chief Auror in a century and– most pertinently tonight– married to a very powerful werewolf. If she was giving them news, it probably came from him. "We've got a BOLO for members of the _Shadowsmoke Pack:_ only urban pack in London, identifiable by their blue eyes and black fur. Perkins?"

"Sir," the officer said, lowering her hand, "I thought the Shadowsmoke Pack had agreed to a truce?"

"Well it seems they've gone rogue," the chief growled. "Lupin says her husband's predicting an attack sometime tonight. Now all of you, listen up and listen good: Shadowsmoke's just about what you'd call an institution in the London underground, but this isn't your Victorian horror novel! These blokes are dangerous; somehow they're getting their hands on Wolfsbane, and that means you're outmatched on their turf. So don't take any unnecessary chances and for the love of Merlin, don't try to be a hero! All werewolves in city limits are required to be inside on the night of the full moon, so if you see anyone out and about, even if they're not Shadowsmoke, call for backup. Everyone clear?"

Heads bobbed. Dudley swallowed.

Sectors were assigned in a monotone; the young officer wasn't surprised when he found out he and Gill had been assigned to St. James Park, but he couldn't help but be bitter about it. When he was finished, the chief looked over them all and said gravely:

"Alright, get out of here. And good luck."

The whole small crowd of officers shuffled out in silence. Dudley retrieved his standard-issue and checked the chamber. Six silver bullets. There was an old saying in the force from the Victorian times: "Nobody's ever used all six– for one reason or another."

The walk to the patrol car was short and anything but sweet; Gill was Dudley's best mate, sure, but that didn't stop the squib from getting on the muggle's nerves. "You, um, you're driving, right, Dud?" Gill, like most squibs, hadn't learned how to operate a muggle vehicle until after being taken on by MI0, and still didn't enjoy it.

"Bloody hell, Gill, some days I don't know how you ever got on the force." The thin young man gave him a pleading look, and Dudley sighed. "Yeah, alright. Check the back for Billywig stingers."

Gill acquiesced, relieved. As he inspected the back of the car for contraband substances, Dudley checked over the mechanics and, finding everything in proper order, clicked the little purple button on the top of his radio. "Patrol car 2168 is in service, sir." The chief himself ensured every car checked in and out again on fulls.

 _"Acknowledged."_ He was about to put the radio when he heard the chief add: _"Dursley?"_

"Yessir?"

A long silence, and then crackling across the magical waves: _"…Don't get yourself killed."_

"I'll give it my best shot, Sir."

The drive to St. James park was snowy and quite lovely, all things considered; the shops along the way were brightly colored with Christmas decorations in the windows, and the warm glow as the street lamps came to life under the cloudy gloom made the whole world feel a little like a children's pageant. Dudley smiled despite himself as he saw a woman leaving a store with a child's football under her arm, no doubt a Christmas present.

"So, tell me…" Gill frowned, leaning forward in his seat. "Why do muggles play that sport?"

"What? Football?"

"Yeah; what's the point of kicking it? Why can't you use your hands?"

Dudley shrugged. "What's the point of batting cannonballs into each others' stomachs?"

"Fair point."

The world grew gloomier and gloomier as behind the thick clouds, the sun drew nearer to the horizon. By quarter past four, they had stopped just outside the edge of St. James Park. Gill and Dudley glanced around, and then nodded to each other.

Dudley punched the invisibility booster as Gill flipped on the compaction switch. Immediately the world around the front wind-shield magnified slightly, reassuring the car's occupants that the vehicle had now shrunk down to the size of a small golf-cart externally. Likewise, the reflection in the rear-view mirrors ceased to display the now-invisible car. One last switch, the security field, was thrown, and the rubbish bin just in front of the car leapt out of their way of its own accord.

Now newly invisible, shrunken and guarded, the patrol car turned down one of the walkways which ran through the center of the park. Dudley looked around, scanning for innocent passerbys; the park had been closed off, purportedly due to "emergency renovations," for the full moon, but there were always stupid teenagers who liked to loaf around where they were told to stay away. Dudley knew. He'd once been one of those stupid teenagers.

Gill's planetary watch chimed, and the squib glanced down. "4:23," he said nervously. "Sun's down."

Dudley grunted and turned on the headlights.

They drove around for about an hour and a half without incident, aside from stopping twice to tell some yobs to clear out (who were, thankfully, too drunk to notice the police car appearing out of nowhere), before they got a call in over the radio. A couple of teenagers had spotted what looked like a very big dog in the distance; thankfully, it hadn't noticed them, but they'd called in, concerned. The muggle confirmed he was en route and turned down the nearest side-walkway.

The park outside the car was hushed with quiet, but far from dark; the silver-dollar moon in the sky gleamed so brightly off the white snow that it seemed almost as bright as daylight. Gill watched the shadows and light pass by and swallowed hard. "What if it's a werewolf?"

There was a long pause, and Gill looked over. Dudley's eyes were fixed on the road. "Then we take care of business," his partner replied flatly.

"Dud–"

"Look, Gill, it's not like we took this job 'cos we thought it'd be easy, did we?" He turned down another walkway, perfectly collected despite the tenseness of the situation. Gill could never quite figure out how he managed it. Growing up the only squib in a household of four wizarding brothers had made him rather skittish any time the business end of a wand was pointed in his direction, but Dudley Dursley never batted an eye. Gill had asked him about it once, and the man had replied that after getting attacked by dementors, everything else seemed like a piece of cake.

They came to a halt in an open space near the call-in, which looked like a field of pure white frosting in the moonlight, contoured only by shadows of gray and pale blue. Dudley pulled the car to a halt and got out, right hand on his holster. Gill followed. "Um… so you go left and I go right?" the squib suggested nervously, cringing at the loudness of his voice in the silence.

"Don't be daft; we're not splitting up. Haven't you ever seen a horror movie?" Gill blinked at him, and Dudley sighed. "Course you haven't. Look, just be ready, got it?"

They shuffled through the ankle-deep snow, looking around them all the while. A slight wind rattled the tree branches above and around them, causing them both to stop in surprise, and then continue on. Dudley scanned the tree-line in front of him on the opposite side of the clearing. The trees cast deep, dark shadows over the drifted snow; nothing beyond a few feet could be seen.

"Dud? Eh, Dud." Gill's voice, thin and frightened, drifted over. Dudley glanced to his right and felt a chill run up his back. Gill had knelt down beside a trail of massive paw-prints, padding off in the direction of the wood.

Dudley swore under his breath and reached for his radio. "Officer Dursley to headquarters; we've got a confirmed sighting in St. James Park, we–"

 _"Dud,"_ Gill hissed.

"Shut it, Gill, I'm tryin' to call for b–"

 _"Dudley!"_

"What?!" He looked over– and stopped dead.

Out of the tree line gleamed a pair of icy blue eyes.

The officers stared. The eyes stared back.

"Gill," Dudley breathed, "10-22."

Gill glanced over at him, startled. "What?"

"10-22." He shot a look at Gill out of the corner of his eye and saw the small, nervous nod. "On my count."

They looked at the wolf. The wolf looked at them.

"Now!"

He broke left; Gill broke right. The eyes seemed to blink, startled, and then the great shadow leapt out of the gloom and across the white clearing.

"SHIT!"

"DUD!"

It was the only natural response; somewhere deep in his heart of hearts, Dudley had been selfishly hoping the werewolf would go after Gill. No such luck. He threw a glance over his shoulder and saw the massive black wolf gaining on him, kicking up snow as it dashed across the field.

 _BANG! BANG!_

"Dammit, Gill!" The oath came in a gasp; the two shots had missed. A third rang out overhead, but the wolf continued on, undaunted, not even caring for its own life.

This thing wants dinner and I'm his damn happy meal!

The trees loomed out of nowhere; Dudley threw himself into the undergrowth and took a sharp turn. He heard the wolf scramble and skid behind him, buying precious seconds; he needed space, time, a gun was no good if the thing landed on top of him with those fucking teeth! He bolted round another tree, trying to work his way back towards the open field where Gill could get a clear shot at the thing, but then the howl sounded to his left, and he was forced deeper into the trees.

 _Shit, shit, SHIT!_

A root. He jumped and sprinted faster, chest heaving.

 _Don't trip, you idiot! DO NOT FUCKING TRIP!_

Deeper and deeper into the trees he ran, so fast that he barely felt it as a stray thin twig snapped across his face, cutting his cheek open. The howl sounded again, and Dudley knew the wolf had scented blood. Shadows and light blended together and every tree looked the same and he didn't know where he was, let alone where Gill was, shit, this was it, this was the end, fuck, _fuck–_

And that was when he realized… there were no sounds of pursuit. He dared to slow, and then to stop. He looked around. Nothing. Trees and snow and moonlight, but no icy blue eyes or inky fur.

 _Did I lose it?_

He listened a moment longer, and scanned the trees, but no shadows moved in the undergrowth and gloom. Breathing hard, he leaned back against a tree, coughing as the icy air set his heaving lungs on fire. _I lost it._ He drew a deep breath, and then another. A guilty thought came to him: _I hope it didn't go back for Gill._

Slowly, he straightened up, intending to go back to find his partner, still looing around him warily, yet not daring to move any faster or louder for fear of alerting the beast, wherever it might be. The woods were silent. He was safe for the moment, and yet… and yet, something was nagging at him in the back of his mind… there was something he'd forgotten…

 _Didn't Chief say that they'd gotten their hands on some Wolfsbane?_

Dudley stopped short in horror, and then whirled around and leveled the gun.

The stalking wolf sprang. He fired.

Gill Hebert's hesitant walk through the woods came to an abrupt halt when he heard the shot go off; he paused a moment, and then sprinted ahead until he came to a small space in the trees, where he saw the first spattered prints of ruby blood on the white snow. He looked up, shocked, to see Dudley Dursley staring down at the naked body of a hulking man with black hair and blue eyes. The werewolf's chest was blown open in grisly detail.

"Fuck," Gill whispered. "I didn't realize they…" He looked up, shaken. "Y'alright, Dud?"

The other officer looked up at him, met his eyes for a moment… and then turned and vomited into the bloodstained snow.

* * *

 _ **Four Days Earlier**_

"That was a nice try, Harry, but you're still getting distracted. You're giving him too many footholds."

"Yeah, Potter," Draco drawled, twirling his wand in his pale fingers with a sickeningly smug smile. Harry resisted the urge to punch the Slytherin in his finely pointed nose. "Try concentrating."

"Draco, be polite."

"I still don't see why we're doing this today," Harry growled, glaring at the blond. It was Sunday afternoon, a lovely sunny day that he'd rather be spending with Ginny down in Hogsmead, instead of with Malfoy of all people. "I thought I had at least another two days before I had to put up with you digging around in my head again."

"Believe it or not, Potter, the world does not revolve around your massively inflated ego, despite its no doubt considerable gravitational pull."

 _"Draco."_

"'Gravitational pull?' Since when do snotty pure-bloods like you believe in science?" Harry shot back.

"Boys!" The Gryffindor and the Slytherin both stopped and looked over; Remus ran a tired hand over his face. "Civility," he repeated, for what must have been the fourth time that day. "Please."

The two glared at each other, and then Draco sighed and grudgingly admitted: "I'm working on my own project tomorrow during lunch; that's why I'm here now."

"Tomorrow? Why?"

"It's the only time my partner and I can both meet; she's… she's a Gryffindor."

"Why not on Thursday? Both our houses have study hour that morning," Harry argued.

Clearly he hadn't guessed that Draco's partner was to be the lovely but undeniably lycanthropic Lavender Brown, who would most likely be incapacitated the morning of the full moon, and the Malfoy heir intended to keep it that way. "I don't believe that's any of your business," he replied coolly. "Shall we continue, professor?"

"Yes, quite," Lupin agreed wearily. "Harry, are you ready?" Malfoy cocked his head with the beginnings of a smirk, no doubt barely restraining himself from repeating the question in a much more condescending tone.

Th Gryffindor met the infuriatingly smug smile of his opponent and narrowed his green eyes. "Try me," he growled.

"With pleasure." The hawthorn stave twitched, the silver eyes flashed, and suddenly Harry found himself in the Room of Requirement. He was under the mistletoe… and there was Cho Chang, approaching closer, her eyes glimmering wetly as she leaned in and–

 _You bastard!_ His romantic interest in Cho may have long since faded, but this was a private memory and Malfoy knew better. _Fuck you, Malfoy!_

He heard the mental snickering echo in his memory, and that was when Harry decided he was exactly 110% _done_ with this. He could have broken off and told Lupin, but he knew that would only make him look weak in the Slytherin's eyes. So Harry decided to take another approach. Namely, the offensive one.

What exactly the "offensive approach" consisted of, he didn't know; all he could do was follow pure instinct and throw all of his mental energies into the idea of hitting back. He felt Malfoy's conscious recoil and, with a sense of satisfaction, hit again and again, driving the unwelcome presence back to the edges of his consciousness until– _until–_

* * *

The world went dark very suddenly, whirling blackly, and Harry had the very odd sensation of feeling formless, disembodied. He tried to turn around and found there was nothing to turn with, or to. _What in the world–?_

"Father, talk to me!"

Reality appeared abruptly with the sound of a frantic voice, followed shortly thereafter by the blurry gleam of marble walls. Harry looked around, dazed; this room– he recognized it– but how?

"Father, please!"

He stopped, startled, as the scene sharpened and came into focus. He was in the main hall of Malfoy Manor, he recognized it now. Ahead of him stood a very small child, no taller than his ribcage, with white-blond hair. And beyond the child was…

"Draco, please, not now…"

Harry stared. Lucius Malfoy looked haggard and exhausted; his black death eater robes were rumpled and dirtied, and his platinum hair was in disarray. He was leaning heavily on the table.

"You look like you haven't slept all night, mother can't stop crying, and Harry bloody Potter just came out of a maze holding a kid's body in his arms! Don't lie to me!" Malfoy's face was white with fear; Harry saw it as he approached hesitantly, and was floored to realize just how young the boy in front of him really was, all of fourteen. "Father, what in Merlin's name is going on?!"

Lucius turned. Harry realized that he was just as pale.

"…Is he back?" Draco managed at last.

There was a long pause. Then, Lucius nodded, looking very gaunt and tired. A shaking breath escaped his son's mouth. "Oh, Merlin…"

"Draco, I need you to listen to me," Lucius said forcefully, setting a hand on Malfoy's shoulder. "Your mother and I- we are going to keep you safe-"

"Father-"

"The Dark Lord is not one to be trifled with. You have heard the stories. You know what he will do to those who displease him." He gripped his son's shoulder tightly. "He is a very unstable man, Draco. I've seen him kill his own for laughing out of turn. But if you do exactly as your mother and I say-"

"Dumbledore thinks-"

"Dumbledore thinks! Draco, don't be a fool! That man would entrust the safety of our entire world to an unqualified, underage wizard just because he happens to have a silly scar on his forehead!" Harry started as he realized they were speaking about him. "Blood, Draco! Family. That's whom you rely on, whom you trust- not some desperate, attention-seeking little celebrity and a daft old fool. Your mother and I, we will protect you– but I need you to trust me."

Draco stared back, wide-eyed. His hands were shaking.

"Draco, do you trust me?" Lucius demanded, desperation in his voice.

The younger Malfoy hesitated, and then nodded. Lucius clapped his arms around him and hugged him fiercely. "Family, Draco. Family keeps you safe," he said, and it seemed as if both Harry and Draco knew full well it wasn't his son he was trying to convince. "We will keep you safe."

 _"Get. OUT."_

Harry turned, startled. A full-grown, eighteen-year-old Draco Malfoy had materialized beside him, seething with rage. Harry took a step back. "I– I didn't–"

 _"I SAID GET OUT!"_

The other boy tackled him, and the world whirled on its axis.

* * *

"We need to go."

Harry spun on his heels; he was standing again, how, he didn't know. Malfoy was beside him, as well, but it was not quite the same; he was pale, too pale, and shaking violently, and in the wrong clothes.

"I can't," he choked, clawing at his face. "I can't, I can't, I can't–"

"Pull yourself together, boy!" Two hands seized the front of the blond's shirt and shook him forcefully; both Harry and Draco looked up into the fiery face of Severus Snape. Harry noticed, dimly, that Malfoy was crying. "You cannot go walking into his presence like this!"

"I want out, I don't want to do this, please, just kill me, I can't do this again, I want out–!"

"Don't you understand? If the Dark Lord knows you hesitated, he will destroy your family!" That seemed to get the boy's attention; he stopped his deranged mumblings and just gasped for air. "And then he will destroy you," Snape concluded quietly.

Draco's face looked as bloodless as a corpse's. "But- I succeeded-" he croaked, "Dumbledore is dead-"

"You foolish boy, do you think that matters now?" He grabbed the boy's arm and wrenched up his sleeve. The Dark Mark stood stark against his skin. "When you took the Mark you joined his ranks for life. He must not think for even a second that you wavered."

"But- how could I-"

"You are an occlumens; you must resist him!"

"Resist the Dark Lord? Impossible-"

A sudden flash of vision blinded him: Harry saw a moment's fantastic image of Dumbledore and Draco circling round the Astronomy Tower, bolts of light flashing, Dumbledore curtly speaking threats that the real Dumbledore would never have used, causing the blond-haired boy to shake with fear. When the vision faded, Draco stumbled back, shocked. "What did you-"

"That is the memory you will show the Dark Lord when he interrogates you," Snape said forcefully. "That is what really happened, Draco! Everything else is a lie! Say it: those other memories are a lie!"

"The- the other memories- are a lie-"

"And this moment, this conversation, it never happened!"

"It never happened," Draco repeated, very pale. "None of it ever happened…"

* * *

The memory shifted of its own this time. All Harry had was a very blurred image of golden-yellow hair and tearful blue eyes, before something rushed past him and obscured the face from view.

"Mother!"

Narcissa gathered him into her arms and hugged him fiercely, tears in her eyes. "It's alright, mother," he whispered in her ear, just loud enough for Harry to hear. "It's alright, we'll all be safe now, everything is going to be alright-"

"As much as I hate to disrupt this little family reunion, I would like to hear a report," a cold voice broke in, and Draco turned. Two eyes, slitted and cold like those of a snake, stared back, and Harry felt a spike of fear lance through his chest.

"Draco Malfoy managed to repair the broken Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of All Hidden Things," another voice replied, and Harry glanced over to see Snape standing on the other side of Bellatrix Lestrange. "His… backup… came in through there and fought off Dumbledore's ridiculous Phoenix pawns with ease. I joined them, and we broke into the Astronomy Tower where Draco had the Headmaster cornered.

"I see. But why the need for support if, as you say, he already had the old fool cornered?"

"I didn't know if I would need help, my lord," Draco said nervously. "In the end, that did indeed prove the most prudent course of action."

"Oh?" The snake eyes gleamed. "Then you did not, as it were, kill the Headmaster yourself?"

Harry felt it just as Draco did: the sudden and relentless invasion of the mind, the force of a superior intellect prying into one's deepest thoughts. Draco, to his credit, managed to throw forward the false memory that Snape had provided, and after a moment the attack ceased. Voldemort turned to his most loyal servant and said coolly, "So. You disobeyed my orders, Severus?"

"Forgive me, my lord," Snape replied, lowering his head. "I allowed my desire for revenge to get the better of me. Moreover, the boy appeared quite terrified- I believe the old man must have frightened him."

"So I saw. He threatened your mother, did he, boy?" A scarlet flicker of a glance back, enough to make Draco's hand tremble around his wand.

The blond swallowed. "Yes, my lord." He glanced to Narcissa for a moment, and then added for good measure, "Apparently his so-called 'compassion' only extends to his favorites."

Voldemort laughed, high and cold. "Naturally. Well done, Draco, very well done. Perhaps you have the makings of a real wizard in you, after all."

"Thank you, my lord. That's very generous of you, my lord."

Voldemort raised his wand and flicked it at the door, which swung open. "Go now. I need a word with Severus." Harry noticed that Snape went even paler than usual at that statement, but his face was set with determined resignation. Narcissa and Lucius swept Draco out of the room and down several hallways, before pulling him aside into a room and locking the door tightly. Narcissa cast several silencing charms on the walls and half a dozen other spells he didn't recognize, before the small family turned to each other, relief filling each of their faces.

"My brave boy," Narcissa breathed, moving to embrace him again. "Oh, Draco…"

"Is it true? You fixed a vanishing cabinet?" Lucius questioned, a flicker of pride in his hoarse voice. Draco nodded wordlessly, and the man shook his head in disbelief. "Incredible. How did you…?"

"It's like you said, Father," Draco nearly whispered. "Family keeps you safe."

Lucius nodded, swallowed, and pulled his wife and son into his arms. Harry watched the scene in stunned silence– up until a wrathful voice shook the world to its foundations:

 _"OUT, POTTER!"_

* * *

The pushback was so violent that Harry literally tumbled backwards as his consciousness returned to the physical world, collapsing into a desk. Lupin was looking wildly between them. "What? What happened?" The two boys were staring at each other, Harry with shock, Draco with unbridled fury. "Draco–"

"No!" His face was flushed with rage; silver eyes flashed to Lupin, burning with anger and something else– fear. "He had no right to any of that! If you think I'm going to stand here and let him waltz through whatever memory he likes-"

"Draco-"

But the blond had already turned and swept out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Lupin turned, anger and shock in his eyes. "Harry, what did you do?!"

"I don't know! I- I was just so angry I pushed back and…" He faded off as it dawned on him. "Professor, I… I think somehow, I pushed my way into his memories. But I didn't mean to, I swear!"

"You saw his memories?" Harry nodded, confused and guilty, and Lupin stared at him, now more stunned than angry. "Incredible… Harry, I've never… but then, you've always been precocious…"

"Professor?"

"You're a natural legilimens," Lupin explained, slightly awed. "The first I've met in a long while."

"What? But I can't be; I've never studied it!"

"Some wizards have a sort of- of inborn talent, for particular types of magic. It comes naturally to them, the same way music or mathematics come naturally to others…"

Lupin was studying the boy with a scientific, and somewhat unsettling, interest gleaming luminously in his yellow eyes; for the first time outside of seeing the man truly angry, Harry felt a little intimidated by the intensity the werewolf could possess when something caught his focus. "You seem to have a gift for legilimency, Harry; it's a rare blessing, but not unheard of. I knew an old woman in New York who said she was born with the gift; I think you'll find it'll prove incredibly beneficial, if used rightly."

The boy stared at him for a long moment, digesting this, and then sat down heavily in the nearest chair. "Brilliant," he muttered angrily.

"Harry?"

"Effing brilliant. One more way I'm 'special.' Great."

Lupin frowned, not a little surprised. The young man was glaring down at the desk like it had personally affronted him. "I… must admit, I'm a bit confused, Harry. I'd have thought you'd be pleased. Most people have to train for years to develop the skill to such a degree."

"You don't get it." Harry looked up with frustration in his green eyes. "Remus– look, I'm already the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the Hero, the one everyone has been 'expecting great things from' from the moment I got here and– and I'm just sick of it, alright! I'm sick of being special, I'm sick of- of–"

"Alright, I think I get the picture." Remus looked down at the fuming boy and asked gently, "Harry, have you ever talked about this to anyone before?"

The black-haired man shrugged irritably. "Ron, some. And Hermione and Ginny a bit. But… Remus, sometimes I just want to be… normal."

The werewolf smiled ruefully. "Well hell if I don't understand that." Harry snorted at the profanity. "Listen, Harry, if that's how you feel, this'll be our secret."

"Until Malfoy decides to spout off, you mean."

"Something tells me he won't be too eager to tell anyone what just happened. Although," Lupin sighed, "getting him to come back to help will be a bit tricky. Especially considering I need him for class tomorrow."

"Oh. Sorry 'bout that…"

"It's alright, I'll sort it out." The teacher eyed the student, and then said abruptly: "Harry, why don't you come upstairs and have some tea?"

Harry glanced up, surprised, and found that the intimidating curiosity in the professor's eyes had died down again, so he nodded hesitantly and stood. "Yeah, alright."

Lupin led him up the stairs to his office, where he made them both a cup of mint tea and passed Harry a biscuit from a tin. The student took it with a small smile. "You're turning into McGonagall."

"Yes, she advised I always keep sugar biscuits on hand. Apparently they're a necessary commodity for a Head of House." Harry chuckled and took a bite. Remus watched him a moment, and then said, "Harry… are you doing alright?"

The young man swallowed the cookie with a gulp of tea before he answered with an honest shrug. "I'm better than I was. But it's still hard." He paused, and then added, "Y'know sometimes, I'll pass by a certain hallway or suit of armor and I'll just… get this flash of memory, of a body lying there or spells flying…"

"Mm."

"It's like when Sirius died, almost, only… only it doesn't hurt as much, y'know?" He broke off suddenly and looked up. "Sorry. I didn't mean to bring him up…"

"It's alright," Lupin reassured him, "in fact it's good, Harry; trying to forget the people we've lost is– well, it's dangerous, emotionally speaking. It makes you afraid of the very memory of a person you love."

"Yeah?"

The werewolf nodded. "I spent a long time trying never to think about your parents, after they died, and that was a sorry mistake. I even moved across an ocean to try to get away from their memory, and I can tell you now, it didn't work." He smiled slightly, sadly. "How very like them; chasing me halfway 'cross the world to stop me from running away."

Harry grinned despite himself, and then his face grew pensive. "Remus?"

"Mm?"

"Can you tell me about him? Only I know a lot about Mum, but… honestly, Remus, I know you told me there was more to him, but he just… seemed kind of like an arse to me."

Lupin was silent for a long moment, before he sighed and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Harry… I don't know if James would have wanted me to tell you this, but I can't let you go on with that kind of an image about your father, so I'm going to." Harry frowned and leaned forward; Remus opened his eyes. "Your father had a secret. A very… a very unhappy secret."

"What?" Harry's voice sounded hushed.

Lupin grimaced, and then drew a deep breath. "Harry, you know that your grandparents were quite a bit older when they had your father, don't you?" Harry nodded. "Well, it wasn't for lack of trying. James was your grandparents' seventh child."

"What?" Harry was thrown. "That can't be true; if dad had siblings I'd know them."

"I doubt that," Remus said gently, "because James didn't know them, either. They all died in miscarriage; he was the only one to make it to term."

Harry's mouth fell open. "What?"

"It's a common problem among purebloods, or at least those who married family members, and the Blacks were guiltier of it than most. Andrew, Peter, John, Mary, Elizabeth and Anne. James was the last. And he… Harry, I want you to try to imagine what it must have been like for him. Growing up in this huge, empty house, sleeping in a bedroom that was supposed to belong to a brother, playing on a swing-set that was built for a sister… James was born with survivor's guilt. He never admitted it aloud, but I think he always felt like he had to live up to their possibilities– that he had to prove he deserved to be the one who made it. And he never told anyone, not for a very, very long time."

Harry sat silently, dazed. He'd always regretted being an orphan, always wished for siblings like Ron- Ron, who'd grown up in the shadow of all his older brothers. But this? He couldn't imagine having to live up to the potential greatness of six dead brothers and sisters.

"So if he came off a little arrogant," Remus concluded gently, "if sometimes– alright, often– he went too far in trying to prove to himself and everyone else that he was great, that he was worthy, and maybe more than anything trying to prove that he was _happy…_ I hope you can forgive him. He wasn't a mean-spirited person. He was just scared young boy trying to live in a very adult world."

Harry thought back to the vision of another scared young boy he'd seen just half an hour previous, and felt a strange rush of sympathy for the Slytherin who'd tormented him for the last eight years. "…Thank you, Remus. For telling me that. I-I think I understand dad a little better now." He thought a moment, and then said, "Could you… tell me more about him, sometime? And mum? I-I don't remember anything about her except her screaming, and I don't remember dad at all… I'd, uh, like to get to know them, if that makes sense."

Remus smiled. "I think that's an excellent idea."

They both paused as the clock chimed three, and Remus cleared his throat. "Well, it's a lovely day, and I'm sure you have better things to be doing than talking to your old professor."

"You're not old," Harry admonished as he stood and shouldered his bookbag. Remus snorted, and the young man smiled. "Thanks again, Remus."

"Anytime."

The professor watched as the boy left through the door, musing on old memories. It was a tragedy, a true tragedy, that James would not be the one telling him these stories. It was unfair, that Remus should have so many wonderful memories with the man he had grown to love like a brother, while James's blood son had none. But then, there was no way to fix that now…

Remus sighed, standing up– and then stopped short. Because that wasn't entirely true. There was a way to fix that. And, with a sudden shock of guilt, he remembered the vial gathering dust in his room, the one he had intended to give the boy back on Harry's seventeenth birthday and in the chaos of the war had quite forgotten.

But there would be more. A plan began to take form in Remus's mind. Oh, yes, there would be so many more, and by all that was good in this world, Harry Potter would know his father, so long as Remus Lupin had something to say about it.

* * *

Advent-tide had begun, and with it preparations for Christmas. The whole of Hogsmead was decorated in evergreen wreathes and crimson-red ribbons; garlands were being strung with shining yuletide ornaments, and a great tree had been set up with blazing golden candles between the kirk and the chapel, a sign of mutual good tidings with great joy for all peoples.

Lavender Brown, now accompanied by two stoutly defensive Indian witches (the Patils, dressed in lovely cerulean and violet cloaks and muffs, were shooting dagger-glares at anyone who happened to give her a foul look) had dared to descend to the village again, clad in her fluffy rose cloak and steadfastly ignoring any opposition in her direction. She would _not_ lose her head this time around, and besides, Lavender Brown was on a mission. A sacred mission, a mission that could not, under any circumstances, be forsaken.

Lavender Brown was shopping for a dress.

But not just any dress. A dress for the Yule Ball, which meant it had to be _perfect._ She didn't know what she wanted yet, but she knew it was as necessary as air.

The bell above the door chimed as they entered _Trim and Tassles,_ the nicest tailor's in the village; the three girls, being women of means, had elected that there was no reason not to start with the best. The shop was lovely warm and lit up with gleaming yellow tapers in the crystal chandelier, all paneled cherry-wood walls and fine cloth in colors as rich and delicious as candied sweets.

It is, perhaps, a bit difficult to explain to a man what a woman feels when she finds the perfect dress. It may be likened to what he experiences upon seeing the perfect racing-broom (or motorcycle, as the muggles might prefer) in a shop window, or when he comes across a truly marvelous painting languishing in the back of a second-hand shop. A sudden delight flares up at such an example of true craftsmanship and talent, especially after having searched for many hours or even days through many sub-par or second-rate examples, lifeless and without inspiration. One knows immediately that _this_ is a work of art to be admired and, if possible, possessed.

Thankfully for Lavender Brown, she did not have to search for hours or days, for there, displayed as if newly-finished upon a sewer's mannequin near the front of the shop, was The Dress. It was perfectly lovely: deep cranberry red, with a sweetheart top, capped sleeves and a skirt that fell to the knees in elegant, gentle pleats. It was classy, the sort of thing women wore forty years before her time, yet hugged the curves in such a way as to encourage just a hint of imagination. Lavender adored it immediately.

The Patils had noticed her fascination and, quickly spotting the dress in question, gasped with simultaneous delight. "Ooh, Lav, it's perfect!" Padma squealed.

"Try it on!" Parvati urged, pushing her forward.

"It's on a mannequin; do you think we should–?" The shop owner seemed out for the moment, or was perhaps working on a new creation in the back room and hadn't noticed the bell ring.

"It's there for trying, isn't it? Come on!"

With little urging they'd managed to push the blonde into the changing nook, shoved the dress into her hands, and yanked the curtain closed with a rattle. Lavender smiled to herself at their excited giggles from beyond the barrier of paisley cloth and shrugged off her heavy winter cloak.

It really _was_ the perfect dress, she decided as she shimmied into it, awing at how, despite the cut of the cloth, her movement (or lung capacity!) was not the least bit restricted. She shook out her golden curls and turned to the gold-edged oval floor mirror. Then her good cheer was dashed immediately, and she wondered how she could have forgotten.

The white ropey scars seemed to glare back at her, all the more dramatically as the blood rose to her face and chest. Lavender blinked hard and swallowed, her eyes tracing the knotted lines down her neck, over her collarbone and across the top of her chest. Deep furrows ran from the hollow in her neck down below the sweetheart neckline where Greyback's nails had torn her open. The reconstruction surgery had repaired her organs, blessedly giving her back the ability to nurse a child (the stabbing pain of uncertainty pierced her heart at the thought, lifted only by the hope that was Teddy Lupin) and thus her figure with it, but the skin could not be repaired without making the damage even more painfully obvious with the splotches of skin-graft. Worst of all was the last two puncture holes that poked out from the edge of the neckline at her shoulder. Lavender looked at the bite, the first bite, and shuddered.

"Lav, c'mon, let us see!"

Parvati's voice startled her, and Lavender jumped, before turning back to the mirror. Her face twisted in disgust, and tears filled her eyes.

On the other side of the curtain, the Indian witches waited eagerly, only to receive a dull reply: "I'm not wearing it."

"What?" The twins glanced at each other, surprised. Padma took her turn and called: "At least let us see it first!"

"No."

"Lav!" Parvati, ever the more impatient, grabbed the curtain and yanked it open, ignoring her sister's hissed chastisement. Lavender whirled around and then glared at the other Gryffindor.

"Vati!"

"Ohh…" Now understanding, Parvati bit her lip and shrank back, uncertain what to say. Lavender let out a little sob.

Thankfully, where courage fails wisdom can sometimes supply; Padma, the more sensible, glanced up and down said frankly, "Lavender, don't be ridiculous."

"W-what?"

"You look lovely in it; honestly, if you're going to buy it, I will. And that would be a shame since you know I'm at least two sizes too small."

"B-But–"

"No buts." At her friend's teary look, the Ravenclaw sighed. "Honestly, Lav, it's not like the scars are _news._ You've been walking around with them all year; nobody's going to notice."

"Padma, just stop," Lavender sniffled angrily. "I know I look hideous, you don't have to make me feel b–"

"You do not look hideous, you look perfectly charming. Here." Padma drew her wand and flicked it dramatically; Lavender squeaked as her golden curls, which had gotten mussed in the winter wind, suddenly rearranged themselves so that they splayed out, nice and neat, over her shoulders and down her back. "And like this." Lavender was too startled to fight back as Padma grabbed her friend's hands and planted them squarely on Lavender's hips, before tilting the girl's shoulders so that she was slightly off-center in the mirror. "Look. _Really_ look."

Lavender looked at herself, startled, and then slowly started to smile. She settled into the stance Padma had been encouraging, with her head tilted coquettishly and her hands framing the waistline. Her own golden eyes glinted back at her almost saucily, and her smile grew. The scars didn't fade– they never would– but in that strange instant, they became incorporated into the image of herself she carried in her mind. They were a _part_ of her, and Lavender saw, for the first time, that she was still really quite pretty. Stunning, in fact. How odd, that she'd overlooked it for so long. And in _this_ dress, well, nobody _else_ was going to be able to overlook it, either.

The twins glanced at each other again and smiled as they saw the old Lavender– or perhaps, the New and Improved Lavender– break through and stand up straight, smiling at herself in the mirror.

"I need shoes," she declared, and the Patils squealed.

Unfortunately for them, that squeal was enough to alert the store owner, who at last came round the corner from the back room. She took one look at Lavender and went tight-mouthed. "Miss Brown."

It was a very strange moment for Lavender. She'd known Madame Lucretia for eight years, and the witch, a wealthy and middle-aged seamstress of great talent, had always adored her; or at least, that was what Lavender had thought. It occurred to her now that perhaps the seamstress only appreciated her business. From the steely look in the woman's eyes, her new opinion could not have been clearer. Nevertheless Lavender straightened up and gave the woman a very polite smile. "Madame Lucretia. As always I am impressed with your work; how much is the dress? I'm afraid I didn't check the tag."

"It's not for sale."

Lavender's heart plummeted, but she maintained her innocently curious façade. "Oh? Do you need it for more copies? I can come back for it later. Would you like me to pay now or then?"

It would be a lie to say she didn't derive some pleasure from seeing the emotions racing back and forth across the matron's face; she seemed in a perpetual debate between her high standards and her desire not to be rude. Unfortunately, the former appeared to win out. "As I said, it's not for sale. I'm afraid you'll have to leave the shop now."

"Oh? Are you closing early?" Lavender met her eyes with a pure and unwavering expectation of respect. If this woman was going to force her out, Lavender was going to make her admit the motive to her face.

"I have the right to refuse service–"

"But why would you refuse service to me?"

At last the matron's patience wore out. "I don't do business with your sort, girl."

"My 'sort?'"

"Werewolves," Madame Lucretia said with gritted teeth. Her face was turning very red.

"Oh? How very odd." Lavender looked down at the dress with an eyebrow raised. "After all, I'm not using this dress for anything werewolf-related. I promise, I'll be in no state to wear it this Thursday. Oh, that's the full moon– you know, when I transform?"

Padma and Parvati were looking between their friend and the shopkeeper with apprehension and awe. They had never heard their friend speak so openly in public about her curse. "So you see," Lavender concluded modestly, "I won't be needing it by then. I can stop by later and pick it up."

The mention of the full moon had turned Madame Lucretia pale. "I already told you, it's not for sale!" she snapped. "Now get out of my shop! Go on!"

"Hmm. Pity." Lavender snapped her fingers; a rosy-pink spark flared, and immediately she was clad in her own clothes, and the dress had reappeared back on the mannequin. Madame Lucretia looked somewhere between having a conniption with fury, and fainting in terror over the powerful show of magic. "C'mon, Padma, 'Vati. I don't really think this shop is up to our standards." And without further ado, she waltzed out of the store, the two girls hurry after her in breathless amazement.

"Lav, that was incredible!" Padma gushed as they swept down the street. "How did you _do_ that? With the clothes?"

Lavender actually laughed, exhilerated. "I don't know! I knew my magic gets stronger before the full moon, but I never realized just _how_ strong!" She giggled, and then sighed. "Pity about the dress, though."

"Oh, don't you worry about that." The two glanced over at Parvati, who was grinning wickedly and practically skipping down the snowy cobblestone road. "It wasn't too complicated of a cut; mum could copy that easily."

"But we don't have any pictures," Lavender pointed out.

"No need." Parvati's grin grew. "Dean's just been accepted for a penseive-sketching internship with the DMLE. A little thing like this shouldn't be a problem."

Padma and Lavender glanced at each other, awed. "Parvati, you're a genius," Padma breathed.

Parvati only giggled, before she said: "Well, that's enough of that! Lavender, didn't you say you needed shoes?"

* * *

Despite Lupin's assurances, Harry was still slightly surprised to see Malfoy standing at the front of the classroom when he arrived Monday morning for DADA. The Slytherin looked distinctly uncomfortable, shuffling his feet awkwardly and casting one very huffy look at Harry before turning his face away. Harry raised an eyebrow, snorted at the dramatics, and sat down.

The rest of the class filed in slowly, a few casting odd looks at Malfoy but not saying anything. Lupin wasn't in yet. If Harry had bothered to pay attention, he would have noticed something very strange; when Blaise Zabini, Gregory Goyle and the two underclassmen entered the room, Malfoy immediately dropped his eyes. It was a small matter, but a potent one: every pureblood of standing knew such to be a position of servitude, an obvious recognition of who had the upper hand.

Lupin arrived just as the school clock was chiming eight and quieted the class with a knowing look; the sleepy morning discussion hushed and died.

"Good morning," he began pleasantly. "As you might have noted from the syllabus I passed out at the beginning of the semester, today we are beginning our study of–" He waved his wand lazily at the board, "Occlumency."

That was all it took for a very wary mood to settled over the classroom indeed. Draco looked out at the sea of hostile faces and swallowed.

Lupin gave the same lecture he'd recited to Potter during their first lesson, by the end of which the rest of the students were looking sincerely less than amused. "You're going to let _him,"_ Adrian Harold deadpanned, "poke around in _our_ brains?"

"I'm not going to 'allow' anything," Lupin replied mildly. "There will be no practical on this unit. Your work will be in theory. However, Mr. Malfoy has very kindly agreed to help train anyone who feels up to it. The rest of you can begin on your reading."

The class glanced around at each other uncertainly; then, one by one– not many, but more than a few– nervously got to their feet. Draco couldn't stop his mouth from falling open when he saw that Potter was the first to stand and make his way to the front of the room; a queue began to form behind him.

"Alright," Lupin said genially. "Let's begin, then. Harry–" He gave the young man a slightly warning look, "Have you got a memory in mind?"

"Yes, Professor."

"Excellent; what is it?"

The black-haired wizard's mouth twitched ruefully. "I think he'll know it when he finds it, Sir."

Lupin blinked. "You're going to fight him off from the inside-out?" Harry nodded; the professor looked uncertain, but apparently decided this was something for the boys to work out themselves. "Alright, go ahead."

The two squared up; the rest of the class looked on nervously– some with anxiety, others with eagerness. An eight-year feud was clearly about to come to a head.

Silver looked into green. Green looked back. Draco narrowed his eyes, and then threw his magic forward.

Much to his surprise, Potter didn't bother to put up any resistance. A series of flickering memories rushed by, all of them having something to do with the Ravenclaw chaser—Chang, he thought her name was—before one suddenly came to life right in front of his eyes:

* * *

They were on the train, Draco realized in surprise; even odder was that, although there was a Harry Potter in front of him, there was another right beside him, watching the memory unfold in so calm a way that Draco immediately realized that Potter was choosing not to fight back, at least for the moment. He also noted that the dark-haired wizard was turning a rather remarkable shade of red.

 _"Mimbulus mibletonia!"_ Draco looked over to see none other than Neville Longbottom proudly presenting a succulent plant of the sort to Potter and the rest of the car's occupants: namely, Lovegood and the Weasley girl. Potter (the younger) was staring at the plant with a rather baffled look.

"It's really, really rare! I don't know if there's one in the greenhouse at Hogwarts, even. I can't wait to show it to Professor Sprout!" Apparently Longbottom had found his green thumb early; he couldn't be any older than fifteen here. "My great-uncle Algie got it for me in Assyria. I'm going to see if I can breed from it!"

The young Potter's baffled expression had not vanished. "Does it, er, do anything?"

"Loads of stuff! It's got a defensive mechanism– hold Trevor for me–" Longbottom shoved the aforementioned frog into Potter's startled hands, retrieved a quill, and poked the plant hard.

Draco let out a startled laugh as offensive green goop spurted everywhere, covering no one quite so much as Potter. He heard a low noise of embarrassment and looked over to where the older Harry was rubbing the back of his neck, grimacing. Draco snorted.

"Sorry!" Longbottom was in a state, frantically trying to dry off his friend as Harry the Younger choked and spat a mouthful of the goop onto the floor. "I haven't tried that before– didn't realize it would be so– Don't worry, though, Stinksap's not poisonous..."

"This is glorious," Draco chortled. "Really, Potter, thank you. You've made my day."

"Yeah, wait for it," Harry the Elder said ruefully. The Slytherin barely had time to wonder what that could mean, when the door opened behind him. He turned to see none other than the pretty Ravenclaw chaser.

Draco broke down laughing so hard he had to hold his stomach, collapsing to the sap-covered floor. Harry the Elder was chuckling even as his younger counterpart had a very embarrassed conversation with a blushing Cho Chang. By the time the girl left, the Slytherin had managed to collect himself, grinning up at the other man in barely-contained mirth. Harry grinned back, and the Slytherin knew why he'd been allowed to see this. "Alright," he said with a snort, standing up. "We're even."

"Good. Now–" Potter adjusted his glasses with a smirk, green eyes glinting. "Get out of my head, you prat."

* * *

From that moment on, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were no longer enemies. There are some things you can't share without ending up not hating someone, and seeing the other guy get covered with stinksap in front of a pretty girl is one of them.

* * *

Draco was already waiting by the time Lavender arrived in the little nook at the back of the library, breathless, red-cheeked and carrying a silver coffee-pitcher and two mugs in her hands. "Sorry I'm late!" she apologized, setting down the pitcher on the table. "I brought us cocoa!"

"It's alright." Draco was staggered by just how lovely Brown looked and found the blood rising to his pale face at the realization. A Christmas-red bow had tied back her curls, which were gleaming in the light and her glittering golden eyes were alive with good cheer. The scene was made even more charming by snowy blue-white background of the window as thick, fluffy flakes drifted down behind her. He realized he was staring and cleared his throat. "Shall we begin?"

"O-oh. Yes." She sat down hastily and poured them both a mug of steaming hot chocolate as Draco opened the textbook. "So, um, I-I don't think brewing the potion itself should be too much of a challenge– that is, it's tricky, but we have the instructions already…"

"Yes, I was thinking the same. The real challenge will be changing it. You said the main objective was to bring down the cost, yes?"

"Mm-hm. It's the silver and the moonstone, really; the rest is easily found…"

"'Tooth of a werewolf,'" Draco read aloud as scanned the list of ingredients. "No offense, Brown, but that might be a touch harder to get; I don't fancy pulling out any of your teeth."

Lavender giggled, which made him smile; then she ducked her head and looked away. Draco cleared his throat and looked away as well; he knew she was certainly feeling as awkward as he was about how their last interaction had ended.

Casting around for something to restart the conversation, he spotted a few sheaves of paper poking out from her bookbag– an illustration of a dress, he thought. Curious, he asked, "What's that?"

"W-what? Oh!" Lavender noted his nod and pulled the pages out of her bag. He'd been correct; it was a picture of a red dress, from two or three different angles, and very well-drawn. "It's a picture for Padma and 'Vati's mum; she's making me the dress for the Yule Ball."

 _The Yule Ball._ Draco had almost forgotten it was happening. He looked down at the red dress; an image, clear as crystal, flashed into his mind: Brown, with her shining golden curls and arresting golden eyes, curves flattered sweetly by the elegant dress, smiling at him— _for_ him. The man felt his stomach make a funny flip-flop motion inside him, and he cleared his throat. "Well I–I look forward to seeing you in it."

Lavender's whole face lit up with a pink flush, and Draco could have kicked himself. He'd intended to say, _I look forward to seeing you there,_ but it seemed his mouth had gotten ahead of his thoughts. "Um- that is- uh–"

"I-It's okay. I know what you meant," Brown said quickly, looking down at the table and still very, very red. Draco almost laughed at that; _he_ didn't even know what he'd meant.

A long moment of awkwardness passed. Neither knew quite what to say. Or rather, neither wanted to bring up what they knew they ought to say.

In the end, it was the House of the Bold that braved the silence. "Malfoy," Lavender said suddenly, causing the other to jump and glance over; she fumbled with her words a moment before she said, "Look, um– about– about last time–"

"Brown, you don't–"

"I'm sorry."

Draco blinked; he hadn't been expecting that. "What?"

Lavender moaned and buried her face in her hands. "I'm so, so sorry! It was impulsive and silly and I know you must have been disgusted and–"

"Disgusted? Brown, I-I wasn't disgusted." She looked up, startled, and the blushed. "You're… that is…"

"You… aren't angry?" she half-whispered. Her glittering golden eyes were very wide.

Draco managed to shake his head. "No," he said hoarsely.

The snow drifted lightly down outside. Steam rose from their mugs of hot cocoa.

"Draco, if your parents ever found out," Lavender began, voice very hushed.

 _"My_ parents? What about yours! Lavender, I…" He looked down at his wrist, shrouded as ever with his robe-sleeve, and trailed off. "How… how can you not… mind?" he whispered, almost to himself.

He glanced up as a gentle porcelain hand reached over and covered his wrist. Brown—Lavender— was staring at him with those glittering, arresting, _stunning_ eyes, and somehow, without having to be told, he knew exactly what he was supposed to do. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned forward, waiting to see if she would pull away. When she didn't, he leaned a little closer, and closer still, until they were barely two inches apart.

Her porcelain-doll nose brushed against his; her eyelashes fluttered shut, and that was all he saw before his own eyes were closed and her lips were brushing like the fairy-wings over his own. He took a leap of faith and leaned just an inch closer, making the kiss real; Lavender responded in kind. For the first time in his life, he thought with the part of his brain that could still think, he knew why people called this magic.

From behind the bookshelf, Blaise Zabini pulled away, a look of disgust on his face.

* * *

Thursday was another cold, snowy day, blanketing the ground with mounds of fluffy flakes. Remus Lupin had made the wise decisions to stay in bed the whole of Moon Day; what with the snow, the holiday decorations and the gentle playing of Christmas carols from the radio, it was almost a pleasant experience, so long as he didn't try to move around too much– rather like staying in from class when he was a boy.

About an hour and a half before sunset, Dora poked her head into their bedroom. "Hey there," she called softly, her hair a mercifully ordinary brown; she seemed to be doing everything in her power not to upset his headache. "How're you boys feeling?"

"Not too bad." Teddy was napping on his tad's chest, and Remus looked down at the boy with a gentle smile. "Tired and achy, but I was able to choke down a little lunch. And I've read some of a delightful muggle novel."

"Oh? Which one?"

"Mmm. You wouldn't have heard of it. It's about a vacancy on a parish council; it's really quite good. You know, I think we ought to look into this Internet thing, it seems to be getting pretty big."

Dora laughed quietly and walked over, mussing his hair. Remus smiled tiredly up at her. "Have I got a fever?"

"Mm. Not as bad as you did last time." She sat down on the edge of the bed. "So tell me more about this book."

They passed the next half-hour in relative peace, before Remus's watch chimed and he sighed. "Alright, time to break out the horror novels."

Dora took the baby sympathetically as her husband teetered a little, steadied himself, and shrugged on his dressing gown. She helped him with his slippers, and then they snuck out of the apartment. Down the long hidden staircase they went; through the drifts and chill towards the Whomping Willow (thankfully a path had been cleared, but Remus was still shivering bitterly in the wind), through the long passageway in the tunnel, and finally through the trapdoor into the Shrieking Shack, where Remus threw himself exhaustedly onto the sagging sofa, shivering. His hair stuck up in odd spikes where his sweat had frozen in the winter chill.

Dora lit the fire (she could see her own breath fogging in the room), and then sat down at his feet and rubbed his shin sympathetically. Remus gave her a wry smile. "You're an angel for putting up with all this."

"I don't mind it, Remus, honestly."

"Mm. Sure you don't." He closed his eyes with a wince. "Nn."

"Muscle cramp?" He nodded, eyes still closed, and then drew a sharp hiss through his teeth, fists clenching white-knuckled as she saw a spasm run up his core.

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. Remus's hands had begun to shake; his face had gone from pale to a sickly gray, and cerulean sparks were rising lazily from his palms. His magic was literally poisoning him, and Dora felt helpless to stop it. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked gently.

Remus opened his mouth, shut it again with a queasy expression, and shook his head. He blinked hard, and a tear rolled down sideways off his face and into his hair. "M'sorry," he mumbled.

"For what?"

"For being such a coward." His hazel eyes glanced down at her. "I just feel really awful," he confessed, embarrassed.

"I don't blame you. This sucks arse."

He let out a weak laugh at that and nodded.

Sooner than either of them liked, his watch was chiming. "Five minutes," he sighed, sitting up and looking as if the effort cost him more energy than he wanted to lose. "Help me?"

"Of course." She helped him to his unsteady feet and then, step by step, up the rickety stairs. When at last they reached the bedroom she helped him strip down, and then wrapped him in the fluffy blue blanket and lit a fire in the hearth to warm the room. She kissed his sweat-drenched forehead; Remus closed his eyes. "I'll see you soon," his wife promised, and then left, locking the door behind her.

Remus shivered and then lay down sideways, watching out the slats of the window. The sun was sinking on the other side of the house; a faint white light was rising in the east over the pine-bristled mountains. Remus watched it with a bone-weary, exhausted fear. He'd done this thousands of times and he'd do it thousands more, whether he liked it or not. For a moment he fought futilely against accepting it, and then remembered the little family waiting down below and drew a deep if shaky breath, composing himself.

The edge of the moon peeked over the mountain ridge; the white light beamed into his eyes; and Remus screamed as the magic seized in his blood.

* * *

Ten minutes earlier, one Lavender Brown was crawling out of her bed with the help of the Patil twins, her curly hair a matted mess and her usually perfect cream skin stained with dark purplish rings under her eyes.

A simple form of transportation had been arranged: she would floo down to the nearest office hearth on the floor, which in this case was the arrithmancy room, and then stagger half-heartedly into the Room of Requirement. There she would stay until morning.

She had just reached the hearth in the common room when suddenly the portrait-door opened, and none other than Headmistress McGonagall swept inside. "Miss Brown, thank goodness I caught you," she exclaimed, looking unusually frantic and out of breath. "I'm afraid I can't be with you tonight– the door will stay sealed, don't you worry–"

"Professor?"

"My brother, he fell off the roof of the kirk– oh, he's such a fool!– broke his spine clean in two, and punctured a lung at that, nearly bled out internally! If Mary hadn't found him-!" She noticed the baffled and slightly intimidated expression in the girl's face, and clarified: "My brother is a minister; he was trying to do maintenance work on the church and did himself a serious injury. He's allergic to replenishing potions; they need a transfusion right away and there isn't enough Type O to go around. I need to go to St. Mungo's."

Lavender's exhausted face lit up in understanding. "Go on, Professor, I'll be alright," she urged. "It's not as if I haven't done this before."

"You darling girl. Thank you, Miss Brown; I'll return by dawn!" And with that the frantic woman swept out of the tower and shut the door behind her.

"Poor Professor McGonagall," Padma sympathized as they helped their friend to the hearth. "Will you be alright on your own, Lav?"

She gave them a thin smile. "I won't be any worse off than usual, if that's what you mean."

Which only goes to show that none of us can ever really be certain about the future.

For half an hour earlier, one Draco Malfoy, having hurriedly finished his dinner before he could be cornered by Blaise or the rest of his sycophants, had snuck through the halls and snuck back into his lovely private room, courtesy of Helga Hufflepuff's magical room of providence. The Room had adjusted itself slightly; it now included a desk and a small bookshelf full of various odd books, which Draco had perused and found just to his taste.

He was just setting about the beginnings of his homework, when the room suddenly changed form.

The chair he was sitting on vanished and he fell in a rather undignified heap to the floor; the bed and fireplace disappeared as well, and his bookbag (which had been sitting at the edge of the former) tumbled to the floor, spilling books and inkwells everywhere. Startled, Draco stood, and found himself in a very bare, very small cell-like sort of room; there was a deadbolted metal door on one end and a little cot with a warm blanket in the back right corner. In the back left was a toilet and sink. It was a far cry from the cozy room he'd been sleeping in the last several nights.

Baffled, he naturally went to the door, and arrived to find it locked. It occurred to him that perhaps it was locked for a reason, and had the good sense to look out the window.

What he saw startled him so much that he took several steps back.

It was Brown. She was quite alone, and appeared to be undressing. Gentleman that he was, Draco quickly looked away, mind spinning. What was she doing here? Wasn't tonight the night of the–

 _Oh._

 _OH._

"Oh shite," he breathed, turning very pale.

He focused all his will on shifting the form of the room, hoping it would let him back out into the hallway– but such was not to be. His will no longer directed the room; it was obeying someone other than him. At last he understood the purpose; this cell was a failsafe, miraculously dreamed up by the creator of Lavender's room and meant to protect any unfortunate soul who entered the werewolf's prison during the time of transformation. Which in this case, was him.

And that was when Draco realized that he'd made a horrible, horrible mistake.

He liked Brown. Liked her a lot, actually. He probably would have gone on snogging her senseless in the library if they hadn't been broken up by a very disapproving, but thankfully discreet, Madame Pince. But as much as he liked her, he knew he didn't know her all that well, and certainly not well enough for this. Even a prejudiced pureblood like him knew that this was something intensely personal, intensely _painful._

And here he'd blundered right into it.

A faint rattling drew his attention, he looked behind him and felt fear thrill through him. Lavender was looking through the window at him in shock and horror. Draco turned, gaping back. "I-I'm sorry," he stammered, his voice sounding too loud in the silence. "I didn't– it was an accident–"

He saw her mouth _"No,"_ looking ready to faint. Brown stumbled backwards; he saw that she was wrapped in a thick blanket, and was pulling it tighter and tighter around herself, stepping back, back, back–

She stumbled over the blanket and collapsed to the floor; Draco found his hands on the door in helpless shock, watching as Lavender burst into tears, curling up into a ball.

"Oh Merlin. Brown, I'm sorry!" He rattled the door, hoping she would understand. "I'm sorry! I didn't–"

If she heard, or understood, it didn't help; her sobbing only grew more violent, enough that Draco could hear it now. Apparently this room was not soundproof.

Which was why he heard it, in agonizing, heart-stopping detail, when a scream of torture tore from her throat.

He jumped, heart jackhammering against his ribs; beneath the blanket Lavender's back arched, and he heard something pop. Her hand was clawing at the stone floor; her screams were shrieking like she was being torn apart, and he saw the bones in her hand lengthening, her eyes glowing, and on and on that _screaming–_

"Oh Merlin!" He was crying now, and he was too horrified to be embarrassed. He slid to the floor with his back to the door, unable to keep watching; he could hear Lavender sobbing and begging for someone to kill her in between the screams. He bit hard into his knuckles and tried not to throw up.

At last, after what seemed like hours, the screams-turned-howls died away. Draco sat there for a long moment, shaking with misery and fear, before at last he managed to gather his courage and stood, looking half-unwillingly out of the glass.

Across the room, a beautiful creature looked back: a wolf, a lithe, _graceful_ wolf, with honey-golden fur and blazingly bright eyes. Draco momentarily forgot his terror as he stared, stunned. It– _she–_ was like a being out of fairyland.

And then that moment was over.

The presence of another human in the room drove Lavender nearly mad, and that " _nearly"_ was the worst part of it. She threw herself against the wall– the opposite wall. She bayed. She never, not once, came even close to the door, forcing herself away, always away.

And when her bloodlust became insatiable, she tore into herself.

Draco was by now biting his knuckles so hard that he was drawing blood; slowly, weakly, he sank to the floor of his little cell. He listened in silent horror as the werewolf savaged herself, and trembled because he knew it was his fault.

On the other side of the door, the wolf howled.

* * *

 **A/N: PLEASE DON'T KILL ME!**

 **Yes, I know, this is half a year in the making, and I'm truly very sorry! I lost interest in this fic for a while and on top of my insane number of other responsibilities I just didn't have the time. This chapter is a belated birthday present to Belle.**

 **I don't know if this will ever be finished, or when, but I will try to occasionally update. Thank you to all of you who stayed with me this long.**

 **On a happier note, did you catch the two references? Leave a message if you did! Also, 10-22 is the American police code for "disregard last order," so Dudley was telling Gill to disregard his order not to split up. I don't know what police in the UK would say.**

 **Please review! Pax et bonum!**

 **–FFcrazy15**


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